


Forget Me Not

by allyss



Series: Forget Me Not Series [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Arranged Marriage, Cultural Differences, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 134,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3886780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyss/pseuds/allyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a marriage of convenience, a way to forever strengthen the bond between the Dwarves of Erebor and the people of Dale.</p><p>Or so Sigrid tells herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sigrid is no lady.

She was born a bargeman’s daughter. Whatever nobility lay in her blood has long since been filtered out.

She learnt her letters from her father and some manners from her mother, but she grew up poor, with no need for writing and etiquette. She has no knowledge on how to curtsey or how to speak to royalty in a way which won’t offend. She knows only how to be herself, Sigrid of Lake-town, not the high and mighty lady her people believe she has become.

She is the Dragonslayer’s daughter now, Lady of Dale, and future Princess of Erebor.

Her face screws up at the very thought.

There’s dirt under her fingernails and knots in her hair. Her clothes have holes in them and the scarf she wears had seen better days long ago. She knows nothing of the world, only what her father told her in bedtime stories. She is no better than anyone else, undeserving of the sudden respect and adoration that has been lain upon her. She is not a lady, no, nor will she ever make for much of a Princess.

But she must try, for her father’s sake.

So she sits still and tries not to fidget as Prince Fíli fixes a golden clasp into her hair.

There is something very regal about him, something that makes her feel very small. She will make a terrible wife, she despairs, and an even worse princess. She has poor posture and cannot hold up her head in a queenly manner to save her life.

She focuses her attention on Fíli’s own beads, wondering what they mean. She might’ve asked, had she the courage. She sits silently instead, teeth gnawing at her lower lip nervously. She feels as though she has taken ill with fever; she feels both hot and cold, her hands tremble and her stomach aches something fierce with a mixture of butterflies and nausea. She needs air. She needs –

She blinks when she sees that Fíli is looking at her and after a moment, realises what he’s waiting for her to do.

She takes the piece of hair that he had shown her, ignoring how her hand trembles, and braids it as neatly as she can. His hair is coarse, yet softer than she had expected. When she finishes the braid, her gaze drops to the gold bead resting on her lap. She fastens the bead onto the end of his hair and retracts her hands, letting them fall to her lap. She hears the King utter something in the language of Dwarves and the small crowd behind them cheers and stomps their feet. She resists the urge to wring her hands together, as she does when she’s nervous, by glancing at her father. His expression is difficult to read, but he looks proud. A small part of her hopes he knows that she is doing this for him.

Prince Fíli places her hand over his and together, they stand. The King says more in their language, speaking words she doesn’t understand. This ceremony is to announce their betrothal and the beads, she supposes, show that they are now spoken for. A mark of ownership, so to speak. She doesn’t understand Dwarves and no one ever thought to explain to her their ways, but she understands the gesture well enough. _You are mine now,_ the golden clasp in her hair tells her and anyone else who might care enough to look, _no one else’s._

They turn to face the crowd, her hand still sitting on top of his. The small crowd, primarily made up of the members of the King’s Company, who had once sought shelter in her home, and the King’s advisors, bow respectfully before erupting in cheers. Her hands are still trembling when they step down from the raised dais and the music begins, marking the end of the ceremony.

“My lady,” Prince Fíli says and raises her hand to his lips.

She nods her head at him – it is the best she can manage – and he takes his leave of her. He is swept up by a crowd of overexcited Dwarves, who clap him on the back and drag him off to drink. She watches them go, wringing her hands together. The Dwarves smile at her politely as she passes, hurrying over to her father’s side. Her father draws her into his arms at once and she leans into him, breathing a little easier.

“You will be staying here for the rest of the festivities,” her father tells her. He draws away when she tenses and he lifts his hands to gently cup her cheeks. “Don’t worry, I’ll be in the rooms next door. I’ll stay here with you, for as long as I am able.”

She tries not to worry, to reassure herself that all will be well, but it’s not as easy as it seems. It all feels like some strange, convoluted joke. She is certain that they’re laughing at her, that she knows exactly what they’re thinking when they look at her. She might be a Lady in name now, but she still lives in rubble, in a graveyard haunted by the many hundreds of dead. Her home on the Long Lake is little more than ash and ruin.

She has no place here, amongst Kings and Princes and rich treasures.

“Do you think they’ll mind awfully if I go to bed? I don’t… I don’t feel so well.” She says and her father wraps a protective arm around her shoulders. He catches the attention of the Halfling, Master Baggins, and waves him over. He’s a funny sort of creature, very small, with hairy feet – but kind, and unfailingly polite. He walks over to them with a bright smile, hands tucked into the pockets of his green trousers.

“My daughter isn’t feeling well.” Her father tells him. “Give her apologies to the King, will you?”

“Oh, of course.” Master Baggins replies. He glances up at her and smiles. “I hope you feel better in the morning.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, Master Baggins.”

She pretends not to notice the look Prince Fíli sends her way when he sees that she’s leaving.

Her father escorts her from the grand hall and through the winding passageways that lead to their private quarters. He leaves her when she promises that she’ll be alright, that she’ll go to him if she feels unwell in the night, and she steps into her quarters, hugging her elbows. There’s several rooms, one looks to be a study, the other she suspects is a receiving room, and lastly, she comes upon the bedroom. She’s shared a bed with Tilda ever since her sister outgrew her cot. She doesn’t know the feeling of sleeping alone.

Her hands are still shaking when she slides out of her dress and sheds her scarf and jacket. She steps out of her boots and climbs into the bed in her smallclothes. She lies awake for a long time, uncomfortable in a strange bed. There’s no one kicking her in her sleep, no sharp elbows digging into her side. No Tilda. The heat from the hearth warms the room and under the thick layer of blankets, she eventually finds her eyelids growing heavier.

She dreams of home.

 

* * *

 

She is woken just after dawn, when a Dwarf throws open her bedroom doors.

“I am Dara, of the Iron Hills.” The Dwarf announces. “At your service.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly in surprise. The Dwarf, who is wearing a dark green gown and has softer features than most Dwarves beneath a thick brown beard, is a woman. When she sits up and drags her covers up to her chin, the Dwarf blinks and seems to realise that she’s marched into a stranger’s bedroom uninvited. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lady, but I have been sent by Lord Balin to prepare you for the day.”

“Prepare me?” She asks. “For what?”

“Come.” Dara says. “First, you must bathe.”

Dara holds out her hand and she stares at it for a moment, unmoving. She’s almost tempted to refuse. The bed is warm and comfortable, she has no desire to leave it. But when she looks at Dara, she gets the feeling the woman is not to be trifled with. So she slides her legs out from beneath the covers and stands, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The Dwarf frowns at the state of her hair, but makes no comment about it.

There are two sets of double doors in her bedroom, one she knows leads to her receiving room, and the other, she discovers, opens up to a small bathroom that contains a bath, two sinks and a privy. A bath has already been prepared for her, and Dara looks at pointedly, gesturing impatiently for her to undress. She sheds her smallclothes and climbs into the warm water. She draws her knees to her chest, flushing when the Dwarf woman kneels at her side with an armful of soaps and oils.

“I can wash myself,” she grumbles. “I’m not a child.”

The Dwarf tuts in disapproval and fills a jug with the warm bath water. She pours the water over her, wetting her long hair. “You’re not some peasant,” Dara chides as she scrubs soap through her hair. “You’re a lady. And one day soon you’ll be Princess of Erebor. It is why I am here, why Lord Balin sent for me. I have served many ladies in my time, though never a Man.”

The Dwarf drags a comb through her hair roughly, clucking her tongue when she winces.

“Dwarves take great pride in their hair. You must do the same.”

 _I’m not a Dwarf,_ she’s tempted to remind the other woman. Not matter who she marries.

When the Dwarf finds the golden clasp in her hair, she doesn’t remove it, but admires it with a breathy sigh. “Ah, isn’t that lovely?” She says, and leaves it and the braid it holds together alone. Sigrid chooses not to respond, not certain she won’t say something unkind. The Dwarf sets aside her comb and picks up a vial of purple oil, which she pours into her hands and rubs through her hair. It smells strongly of something, the smell lingers even after she washes it away.

Dara hands her a square block of soap. “Wash yourself while I have your clothes sent up.”

“Clothes?” She frowns. “What clothes?”

“I was not given much time. A fortnight is hardly enough time to prepare, but I did my best.” The Dwarf huffs. “As you are the Prince’s intended, you must dress accordingly. The dresses I had made should suffice for now.”

She isn’t sure she understands, but is relieved when the Dwarf gets up and walks into the other room, closing the door behind her. She washes herself quickly, her pale skin pink from the warmth of the water. She picks away the dirt from underneath her nails and washes her face, grimacing when some soap gets in her eyes.

Dara hands her a towel when she returns and she climbs out of the bath, wrapping it around herself.

She dries herself and follows the Dwarf back into her bedroom, where, sure enough, new dresses have been laid out on the bed. She isn’t sure what to say, she can only do as she is directed. Dara hands her a shift, which she obediently pulls on over her head, and sets her towel aside. She is handed dark grey, wool stockings, similar to her own, and Dara ties a pretty ribbon around each leg to hold them up. Next comes the corset, a wretched thing she has never had to endure, though Dara does not tie the strings as tightly as she could have.

When it comes, at last, to the dress, Sigrid sighs. The dress is very fine, a far cry from what she is used to, too fine for the likes of her. It resembles some of the pretty gowns she’d seen on display at the dressmaker’s in Lake-town, the sort she and the other girls had looked at and sighed over. It fits well, though a little tight, and makes her wonder how the Dwarf had known her measurements.

Dara, at least, seems happy with her work when she steps back, clasping her hands together.

“Now, your hair.” The Dwarf sighs. “You can’t be walking around with it looking like that, oh, what would people think?”

“I don’t know.” She mumbles as she sits on the edge of her bed. “What would they think?”

The Dwarf plaits her damp hair around the crown of her head, leaving the small braid Fíli had made loose, hanging by the side of her face for all to see. She touches the golden clasp that now hangs just below her jaw, seeing it up close for the first time. It’s very pretty, with little symbols etched into the sides. When Dara catches her looking at it, she smiles.

“They’re runes.” She explains.

“What do they say?” She asks, but the Dwarf shakes her head.

“Not for me to say. You ask your Prince that, I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you.”

Sigrid lets go of the clasp, grimacing. She doesn’t need to be told, she can guess what the runes say.

Dara’s role in her daily activities makes itself abundantly clear throughout the day. They eat breakfast together in her sitting room, where the Dwarf tells her what is expected of her once she is married to the Prince. She won’t be allowed to visit Dale without an escort. She can’t stay in her father’s home for more than a night without the knowledge and permission of the King. She is expected to be present whenever a noble or a foreign dignitary arrives. Any children she and the Prince may have will be raised as Dwarves.

Just the thought of children is enough to put her off her breakfast. She sets down her knife and fork and puts her head in her hands.

“Elbows off the table.” Dara scolds, though pats her shoulder consolingly.

“I’ve no notion of being a lady,” she despairs.

“You will learn.” Dara says, as if it’s that simple.

“Why?” She demands, frazzled. “Why should I have to? I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t want -”

There’s a knock at the door and Dara gives her shoulder a squeeze before she goes to answer it. Sigrid lifts her head from her hands and looks over her shoulder, sighing in relief at the sight of her father. She stands and quickly hurries across the room.

“You look lovely,” he says and she smiles faintly, even though she’s sure she looks ridiculous. “Prince Fíli has offered to give you a tour.”

Her smile soon dims as she looks over her father’s shoulder and sees the Prince.

“Your father and I will accompany you, of course. As chaperones.” Dara adds, and she feels a surge of gratitude towards the Dwarf.

“Lady Sigrid,” Fíli says, bowing his head respectfully.

“Prince Fíli.” She replies.

The Prince holds out his arm and she takes it after a moment, that uncomfortable feeling returning to the pit of her stomach. Dara and her father fall in step behind them, walking at a respectable distance. This, she supposes, is considered their courtship. Several brief moments alone, constantly under supervision, until they are wed. She has to press her lips together to stop herself from sighing. She is doing this for her family and for her people, she forces herself to remember. For them, she will make this work.

The silence stretches on, growing uncomfortable. She’s never been very good at small talk.

“How is Prince Kíli?” She asks. “The last time I saw him, he was still in the healing tents.”

“He is doing well.” Fíli smiles. “He mourns the absence of a certain Elf, however.”

“As do I.” She murmurs. “Do you know when Tauriel will return?”

“It’s difficult to tell.” He answers. “The last I heard, she was helping clear the last of the spiders from Mirkwood as a favour to King Thranduil. Though, considering it was he who banished her, I’m still not sure why she is doing him any favours…”

A small smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

“Dwarves are arriving from the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills every day.” Fíli tells her as they descend polished granite stairs. “The restoration on the gate is almost complete and the mines will soon be reopened.” She looks around her, realising that they’re in the entrance hall. In only a year, the Dwarves have cleared away almost every trace of the dragon, Smaug. “As you can see, there is still much work to be done. It will take time, but I believe the mountain will one day return to what it once was.” He glances over his shoulder at her father. “As will Dale and Esgaroth.”

She feels a familiar ache at the mention of her home and ducks her head to hide her expression. There would be no restoring Lake-town, not when what was left of the dragon lay on top of it. Fíli leads them through the entrance hall and to what he calls the Gallery of the Kings.

“My uncle and the others tried to kill the dragon here,” he explains. “Tried to kill it with gold.”

“I suppose there’s a sort of irony in that.” She mutters, earning a slight smirk from the Prince.

The sight of the golden floor makes her uncomfortable, it reminds her of all the stories her father told her about the mountain and the cursed treasures that lay within. She looks back at him and sees that his expression mirrors her own.

There are those who fear that the King’s dragon sickness will return, and that it will infect all that step foot in the mountain. It is because of those people that she finds herself here. Even after the arrangement was met and the promised gold was given to her people, there were still those who doubted. They needed something stronger, something they could rely on. She can only hope that she will be enough, and that her marriage will set the hearts of her people at ease. They have lived in fear for too long.

As Fíli leads them across the golden floor and across a walkway, she realises just how large the kingdom really is. It makes her feel very small, looking at the great carvings of kings that tower over them. It strikes her as odd that there may come a day when she calls this place home.

But she doubts that will ever happen.

She sneaks a glance at Fíli and notices the braid she put in his hair is still in place. It is untidy and crooked compared with his other braids.

“You can take that out, if you like.” She says, looking pointedly at the braid.

“Why would I do that?” He frowns.

Behind them, she hears Dara make a choked sort of sound. She looks back and sees her father patting the Dwarf on the back, in spite of her grumbled protests. “By removing it, it would renounce our engagement.”

She blinks.

“Is that… is that what you wish?”

She’s almost tempted to say yes.

“Of course not.” She insists instead. “It’s just… I did it so poorly, I wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed.”

“No, it will stay as it is.” Fíli says as he frowns down at the floor.  

There is a moment of awkwardness, and she wonders if she has offended him.

They are saved from any further awkwardness by the arrival of his brother. Kíli bounds towards them, looking marginally better than the last time she’d seen him. It’s rather a miracle that the two princes and their uncle survived, from what she has heard. All three of them sustained injuries that should have killed them, but instead, were saved just in time by the arrival of the eagles. Kíli grins brightly at them as he approaches.

“There you are!” He exclaims. “Mr. Boggins is making pies.”

Kíli’s gaze flickers between the two of them. “What are you two doing here, anyway?”

“I was giving them a tour.” Fíli answers, looking back at her with a small smile. “What would you like to see next? The treasury? Or perhaps you’d like to end the tour early, and see what Bilbo’s making?”

From the look on his face, she knows exactly which option he’d prefer.

“I think I’ve seen enough for one day,” she smiles.

This is the most they’ve ever talked, she realises.  The Dwarf who had taken shelter in her home hadn’t spoken to her much, his concern had been solely for his brother, but he had saved her life. She remembers it like it was yesterday. The Orc had burst through the door, swinging a long, jagged blade at her. She had been knocked back hard by the creature's arm, sending her stumbling back onto the dining table bench, and she’d looked up, watching with wide eyes as the creature raised its sword over her. She’d been so certain she was going to die, but then Fíli had surged forwards, barrelling into the orc. He hadn’t even had a weapon.

It is with that memory in mind that she looks at Fíli, thinking that, maybe, being married to him won’t be so terrible.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by this lovely gifset - http://anerdquemoraaolado.tumblr.com/post/112601933023/lady-carvenstone-arranged-marriage-au-after - and my late night ponders (otherwise known as the random things i think about at 3am when sleep deprived and delirious) about post-botfa erebor and dale. 
> 
> in the movies, more so than in the book, bard and his family are presented as being quite poor, and it got me thinking that after the battle, it must have been strange (to say the least) for bard and the bardlings to have bard go from a poor bargeman to being lord and then a king. and then this happened, because i'm a sucker for arranged marriage fics and i don't have enough words to express how much i love fili/sigrid.
> 
> i also made a mix? it's supposed to go along with the chapters, sort of. check it out if you're interested - http://8tracks.com/jamespothead/forget-me-not 
> 
> anywayyyyy long story short, i hope you enjoyed this first chapter, hopefully the next will be up soon :) 
> 
> thanks for reading <3
> 
> also, if you spot any mistakes or if some sentences seem a little weirdly worded, please let me know. i don't have a beta and most of my writing is done at like, 1 am after i've drunk one red bull too many


	2. Chapter 2

The graveyard was the first thing they built in the new city of Dale.

The memorial had followed in the months after the battle; the large slab of rock was given to them by the Dwarves, and onto which they etched the names of their dead. She traces the names of people she’d once known while Tilda sets down a bunch of flowers she’d collected. The names number amongst the hundred.

Over a year has passed but the memories are still fresh in her mind, casting a shadow over her heart. But in that, she knows she is not alone. He tries to hide it, tries to be strong and brave like their father, but there hasn’t been a night since the dragon destroyed their home that her brother hasn’t had nightmares. She can hear him in the middle of the night, crying out in his sleep.

“Are you ready to go?” She asks, and Tilda nods.

They walk hand in hand down from the hill, back to the city. Winter has almost passed, she can see the first signs of spring. The grass has started to grow on the blood-soaked earth between the ruins of Dale and the Lonely Mountain and the trees have started to come back to life. Some say that the ice will melt and the river will soon flow past Ravenhill again, where the King and his nephews had almost lost their lives. The winter has been long and they have suffered through so much turmoil, but it feels as if new life has finally been breathed back into this place. They have a chance now, a chance to start again.

They walk through the old marketplace, people nodding in respect as they pass.

The markets are starting to reopen. Workers are returning to their crafts. People are beginning to live again, without the heavy weight of sorrow pressing down on them. The gold given to them by the Dwarves has been put to good use, her father rules fairly and with a kindness the Master of Lake-town had never possessed. There has been talk of making him King, if Hilda Bianca’s gossip is to be believed. King Bard the Dragonslayer. She smiles, wondering what her mother would’ve made of it all.

She fiddles with the clasp in her hair as they walk past the market stalls, embarrassed by how noticeable it is. She feels as if everyone is looking at it and thinking her some silly, foolish child, parading around with something that is worth more than they could ever hope to earn. She ducks her head and quickens her pace, towing Tilda along with her.

“I’m tired of soup.” Tilda says, and looks up at her with big, pleading eyes. “Can we have something special for supper?”

She laughs. “Tilda, you’ve only just had your breakfast.”

“I _know_ , but I thought we could buy something, while we’re here.”

She pauses, looking at the small, makeshift stalls that have been set up around them. She has a small purse of gold hanging at her hip, something which her father had pressed into her hand that morning in spite of her protests. During the celebration of her engagement to Prince Fíli, there had been several feasts, during which she’d seen more food in one night than she had in her whole life. Tilda and Bain had missed out on that, she realises with a twinge of guilt.

She buys some fish, caught fresh from the Long Lake that morning, and an assortment of vegetables, making no effort to haggle the prices down, as she once would have done. Tilda hums happily on the way back to their house, pleased with herself.

They have taken up residence in the house next door to the Great Hall, which had once been the home of her ancestor, Lord Gideon. The repairs on the Great Hall are almost complete, something which comes as a great relief for many.  She remembers the many long weeks after the battle that they took refuge in the hall, huddling together for warmth when the heavy snows came.

It will be good to have a place where they know they will be safe and secure from whatever nature throws their way. They are not like the Dwarves, who have their mountain and great forges to protect them, but they will have a proper roof over their head and thick walls to keep in the heat. They can ask for no more than that.

They walk up the steps, blackened, like everything else, by dragon fire, and push open the heavy wooden doors. After she hangs up her coat, Tilda lets go of her hand and skips up the stairs to the bedroom they share. She walks through into the kitchen and sets the fish and vegetables down on the table. With a small sigh, Sigrid walks through the house and steps out of the back door, into the small garden. The plants are all dead and the grass has yet to regrow, but the vines that grow along the stone walls are beginning to flower and spread.

Life is creeping back, little by little.

She reminds herself to ask Mr. Baggins about it the next time she sees him, as Hobbits as meant to be experts on all things that grow.

“Lady Sigrid?” Her name is spoken softly, yet it startles her all the same. She whirls around and blinks in surprise at the sight of Prince Fíli. “Forgive me,” he says as he steps out into the garden. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright,” she breathes. “How can I help you? My father isn’t here –”

“It’s not your father I came to see.” Fíli tells her and takes a small step towards her. “I’ve been looking for you.”

She frowns when he pulls a small rectangular box out of his pocket and holds out his hands.

“I… I wanted to give you this.”

She stares down at the little wooden box, noticing the strange markings that are carved into it, and hesitates before she takes it from him. She traces the shapes of the markings, wondering if they’re runes. She opens her mouth to ask him what they mean, but changes her mind when she sees him watching her expectantly. He’s waiting for her to open it, she realises. She lifts off the lid carefully. Inside is the most beautiful necklace she has ever seen. A large, round diamond the size of a chicken’s egg hangs off of a sparkling silver chain. She lifts it carefully, eyes wide in wonder. The stone catches the light curiously, making it shine and sparkle.

She tries to imagine its worth and the figure she ends up with makes her feel ill.

“I can’t accept this!” She exclaims and her hands tremble as she lets the necklace slip back the box. She places the lid firmly back on the box and pushes it back into Fíli’s hands with a little more force than necessary. The Dwarf stares at the box for a moment, brows drawn, and then looks up at her with a puzzled look on his face.

“Thank you,” she says when she realises her actions might have come across as rude. The prince blinks up at her, looking even more bewildered. “But I cannot accept such a gift. It… it was kind of you to offer, though. I appreciate the thought.”

Fíli is quiet for a moment, and then he nods, as if he’d worked something out.

“Is… is that the only reason you came here?” She asks and grimaces when he nods. She doesn’t know what to say. She almost wishes she could have taken the necklace, to spare them from any awkwardness. “Oh, well… would you – uh - like to have dinner with us this evening?” She asks, awkwardly wringing her hands. “As you came all the way from the mountain…”

“Thank you, but no. Tonight we’re having a feast welcoming Lord Dáin back to Erebor.” Fíli says, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of his tunic, not quite meeting her eye. She hears the words left unsaid. Dáin Ironfoot has returned to Erebor for their wedding. She’s told that hundreds of Dwarves are expected to arrive for the ceremony - the Princes’ mother, Lady Dís included. “Truth be told, I’d rather not go, but it’s expected…”

When he looks down and slips the box back into his coat pocket, she notices that her braid is still in his hair. It has been two months since their engagement was announced and he hasn’t touched it. It is just as crooked and messy as the last time she’d seen it. She reaches out instinctively, chewing her lip in thought. Fíli’s eyebrows raise in surprise but he stays very still, his eyes fixed on her face as she runs her finger down the piece of hair.

“I could fix it, if you like.” She offers. “If that’s allowed.”

The Dwarf doesn’t say anything, only nods. Taking it as an invitation, she carefully pulls the golden bead from his hair. Not trusting her pockets to be without holes, she grabs his hand and presses the bead into his palm. She doesn’t notice the way Fíli’s fingers curl into his palm, around the golden bead or that he closes his eyes as she undoes the braid, the tips of her fingers gently running through his hair. She takes more care this time, her hands steadier. She doesn’t try for anything too complicated, just a simple plait down the side of his face.

She glances at his face, frowning slightly. He looks uncomfortable; his eyes are closed, with a small pucker between his brows. He looks like he’s concentrating very hard, like he’s thinking a great deal about something. His eyes flash open when she gently uncurls his fingers, taking the bead from his hand. She fixes it onto the bottom of the braid and steps away, suddenly noticing how close they are standing together.

“What do they mean, if you don't mind me asking?” She inquires, looking at all of the other braids and beads in his hair, not knowing what else to say.

“They show my… place,” he tells her somewhat vaguely. “As a Prince, and an heir…”

When the silence between them grows somewhat awkward, she turns away. She looks back at her garden with a small sigh. In spite of all her hopes, it will be a long time before life returns to this place. She looks down at blackened earth, wondering if grass would grow if she replaced it with new soil.  It’s worth trying, she supposes. If she can bring this place back to life while Tilda is still young, it would be worth spending every moment of her time trying to find a way. Tilda has always wanted a garden, filled with trees and flowers, something they’d never had – something she’s never been able to give her, until now.

“When -  uh, will you come back?” Fíli’s voice draws her from her thoughts, surprising her. “To the mountain, I mean.”

“Soon, I expect.” She replies, looking back at him. It isn’t as if she has much of a choice.

Fíli smiles. “Dara will be pleased. I don’t think she likes having to walk here every day.”

She almost groans at the mention of the Dwarf. Dara – though her heart’s in the right place – has become somewhat difficult, of late. The wedding preparations have the Dwarf run off her feet, trying to teach Sigrid everything she needs to know before she is married to a Dwarven Prince. Dancing lessons have been her latest form of torture.

“I’ve tried hiding from her.” She admits. “But she’s like a bloodhound.”

When Fíli laughs, her eyes narrow.

“It’s not funny!” She snaps, but finds herself laughing as well.

“Sigrid?” She startles at the sound of her father’s voice and peers around the Dwarf to see him walking through the house, bow in hand. His expression darkens noticeably at the sight of the Dwarf. “Prince Fíli? What are you doing here?”

“Prince Fíli just stopped by for a visit, Da.” She tells him, smirking at the way Fíli eyes her father’s bow warily.

Her father’s eyebrows raise. “Is that so?”

“I’d better go,” Fíli says, clearing his throat. “Dáin will soon be arriving.”

“I will walk with you.” Her father doesn’t give the Dwarf much of an option. “I have business with the King.”

“It was a pleasure to see you again, Sigrid.” Fíli says as he reaches for her hand and before she can even think to pull her hand away, he presses a kiss to her knuckles. She prepares not to notice her father, awkwardly hovering at the doorway, glaring daggers at the Dwarf. “I look forward to your return to the mountain.”

She bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling as her father all but drags the Dwarf through the house. She lifts her hand in a half-wave when Fíli looks back and feels her cheeks warm at the way he suddenly grins. When the front door slams closed, she groans and she presses her cold fingers to her cheeks, shaking her head in despair.

It isn’t long before Dara arrives. She's in the garden when the Dwarf arrives, churning up the hard earth with one of her father’s old swords. She hears the back door swing open and looks up to see the Dwarf, red-faced and scowling under a thick layer of coats and furs.

“By my beard,” the Dwarf gasps. “What are you doing, child?”

“Gardening.” She says and raises an eyebrow. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“No, no, no. This will not do _at all._ ” Dara snaps as she stomps towards her. She casts a withering look at the state of her dress and then snatches the sword from her. “A Lady does not _traipse_ around in the mud – especially with a sword that’s not even sharp! If you must handle a weapon, at least make sure it is proper Dwarven iron, and none of that rubbish you Men create.”

“That’s my father’s old sword.” She says as the Dwarf tosses the sword into the dirt.

“Well, he should be ashamed of himself.” Dara huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

She can’t help but giggle at that, and the Dwarf’s expression softens slightly.

“It’s too cold for you to be out here. You’ll catch your death, and all my efforts will be wasted.” Dara says and wraps an arm around Sigrid’s middle, towing her into the house with a surprising amount of strength of someone of her stature. Once they’re inside and in the kitchen, Sigrid fills the kettle with water and lights the stove. She makes them both a cup of tea while the Dwarf sheds her multiple furs and coats. “My little birds tell me that the Prince visited you here today. _Without_ a chaperone.”

She hands the Dwarf her cup of tea and rolls her eyes.

“He only stopped by to give me a gift. It was hardly a scandal. We didn’t strip naked and –”

Dara silences her with a glare and she giggles as she sips her tea.

“He gave you a gift? What kind of gift?” Dara inquires after a moment, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“A necklace,” she answers. “But I refused it, of course.”

“Was it displeasing?” Dara asks and she shakes her head. “Was it poorly made? Or unattractive in appearance?” Again, she shakes her head. “Did he offer it in an ungentlemanly manner?” She snorts at that, but shakes her head all the same. “Then why did you refuse?”

“It was too grand,” she mutters, “too grand for the likes of me.”

She bows her head, choosing to focus her attention on her tea instead. She expects the Dwarf to be angry, to tut and yell and call her ridiculous, but instead she gently touches her fingers to her chin and urges her to lift her head.

“Now you listen to me, Sigrid. Nothing is _too_ grand for you. You’re a _lady_. And you were a lady long before anyone gave your father a fancy title.” Dara’s smile is kind, motherly – in a way she has not known for a very long time. It makes something inside of her crack, and she feels her throat tightening. When her lip trembles slightly, Dara wraps her arms around her, pulling her into a bone crushing hug. “Oh, Mahal, forgive me,” The Dwarf exclaims. “I didn’t mean to upset you, dear.”

She draws away with a watery laugh.

“You didn’t upset me,” she says.

But it has been on her mind a lot lately – this unshakable feeling of sadness, which sits like a monster, biding its time, inside of her. She understands it now. She sets down her tea and leans against the kitchen counter, looking down at the Dwarf with a rueful expression.

“Have I ever told you about my mother, Dara?”

“Only that she passed when you were small.” The Dwarf answers.

She’d been Tilda’s age when she died, too young to really understand what losing her meant, but old enough to remember her. She remembers her smile most of all, and how soft her voice had been when she sang her to sleep. When the Orcs had attacked Lake-town, she’d thought about her mother for the briefest instant – _No monsters here, darling_ , her mother would always say when she checked under her bed, _nothing is going to hurt you here, my sweet._ She’d wished for her in that moment, just as she wishes for her now.

“I… I just wish she was here.” She admits. “I never thought I’d be getting married without her…”

“As long as you remember her, she’ll always be with you.” Dara says as she reaches out and squeezes her hand. She holds onto her hand for a moment, feeling the ache in her chest slowly lessen. “I lost my mother as well, when I was quite young. She was a miner, you see. Raised me and my brothers by herself after my father died in battle. She always used to say that no matter what happens, you just have to keep digging, because you never know what you’ll find – it sounds a lot better in Khuzdul.”

Dara lifts her other hand and touches Sigrid’s cheek. “I don’t think your mother would want you to be sad. Do you?”

Her lips twist wistfully, but she shakes her head.

“No,” she sighs at last. “She’d want me to be happy.”

After Dara gives her another hug – this one a little less bone crushing than before – and they’ve both had a second cup of tea, the Dwarf decides they’ve put off their lesson for long enough. She drags Sigrid through to the empty living room and holds out her hands, leading the dance. Dwarves have many dances, none of which she knows, and the lead often interchanges through the dance.

“One, two, three. One, two, three. _Turn_.” The Dwarf counts, humming along to imaginary music. “One, two, three. Spin. One, two, three. Change. One, two, three. Spin again. No, no, no, not like that, like _this.”_

Tilda and Bain sit at the foot of the stairs, giggling at the sight of their older sister being yelled at by a Dwarf almost half her height. She shoots a glare at them over Dara’s head, but it only makes them laugh even more. “Move your feet, Sigrid, you’re not some stumbling Goblin mutant. But – ah – mind _my_ feet. If you step on the Prince’s feet like that, it might be considered treason.”

It takes almost an hour before Dara can admit defeat.

The Dwarf stumbles away from her, panting.

“Alright,” she says. “I think that’s enough for one day. I don’t think my feet can take anymore.”

Her laughter is cut short by the sound of a horn blowing. Sigrid groans, practically hearing the dreaded sound of wedding bells already.

“What was that?” Bain asks, and she sighs.

"Dáin Ironfoot has arrived."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd just like to say thank you so much for reading, and for all the bookmarks, kudos, comments etc. they mean the world to me. hope you enjoyed this chapter, i'll try to update soon <3


	3. Chapter 3

“Rise and shine, sleep is for the dead.” Dara announces as she sweeps in her bedroom, unannounced. Once, Sigrid might have found it odd – waking up to the sight of a Dwarf standing over her – but she has, unfortunately, become accustomed to it. She falls back against her pillow, groaning. “Up and at ‘em, it’s time to face a dragon.”

Tilda sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “There’s another dragon?”

“Yes, I suppose you can say that.” Dara says. “Today your sister is being presented to Princess Dís.”

“What? Why? When did she arrive?” She gasps as she scrambles out of bed.

“Princess Dís and her party from Ered Luin arrived two days ago.” Dara says as they walk out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom - if a privy and a metal bucket can be called a bathroom. If there’s one thing about living with Dwarves that will make it bearable, it’s the plumbing. As she leans over a sink that doesn’t work, and Dara pours cold water from the bucket onto her hair, she sighs, thinking about hot water that doesn’t have to be boiled on the stove and baths whenever she likes.

“You must understand, this is very important. You will be presented to the Prince’s mother in front of as many as a dozen other Dwarves, or she may prefer to do it in private. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worst.” Dara tells her as she washes her hair. “She’ll ask you questions, or she may say nothing at all. Just promise me this – whatever you do, don’t cry or get angry.”

She frowns. “Why would I cry?”

“I’m just telling you so you’re prepared.” Dara sighs as she pours more water over her hair. “From what I’ve heard, the Prince’s mother isn’t… pleased that the King has arranged her son’s marriage, instead of – well, his own. To you.”

She lifts her head and pushes her wet hair away from her face.

“She – she wants me to marry the King?” She splutters. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Though the King has been a fair and just ruler since the battle that almost took his life, she can barely look at him without remembering the scowling Dwarf in her living room, who had inadvertently caused her father’s arrest, glared at her for almost an hour after offering Master Baggins a cup of tea, and almost gone to war over gold. The thought of being married to him makes her laugh at first, then shudder. Fíli is definitely the lesser of two evils.

“It’s something of a scandal, you see.” Dara tells her as she washes the soap from her hair. “Not your engagement to Prince Fíli, but the King’s relationship with the Halfling. There are a lot of ruffled feathers amongst Lord Dáin’s folk. ”

“The Halfling?” She frowns. “You mean Master Baggins?”

Dara hands her a towel with a solemn nod. “I wasn’t aware that they were in a relationship.”

“That’s because they’re not. Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“It’s too early for your riddles, Dara.” She sighs.

Within the hour, Sigrid finds herself standing outside the gates of Erebor, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole to save her from this wretched meeting.  She fiddles a loose thread on the sleeve of her travelling cloak, glancing at Dara for courage. The nervous look on the Dwarf’s face doesn’t help, and she looks back at the towering gates of Erebor, swallowing thickly.

_If Da can kill a dragon, I can face one Dwarf woman._

In the four months since the arrival of Lord Dáin and the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, Erebor has changed almost entirely. The kingdom beneath the mountain is flourishing. She looks around her as they walk, looking for any trace of the dragon. The blackened ground, the cracked stone and signs of disrepair are all almost entirely gone. Great tapestries line the walls, and light – there is so much light. Her father had told her how tirelessly the Dwarves work, and how their determination to return their home to what it once was bordered on insanity. Looking around her, at all they’d achieved, it put the efforts of the people of Dale to shame.

Dara knocks on the door to Princess Dís’ private quarters, and a moment later, someone calls for them to enter.

 _A dragon, indeed,_ she thinks when she first lays eyes the Princes’ mother. Princess Dís is very beautiful – not just for a Dwarf, but by any standard. She has the same raven hair as her son and brother, but she sees Fíli in her eyes and the shape of her jaw. She is dressed in a gown of deep blue, with an axe hanging at her hip, and is the first Dwarf she has seen since the mountain was reclaimed who isn’t wearing any jewellery. She wears no rings on her fingers, no precious gems, no obscene amounts gold. Nothing.

“You must be the Bowman’s daughter. We meet at last.” She says when she catches sight of her. The Dwarf approaches her with raised eyebrows and shrewd, appraising eyes. She is short, even for a Dwarf, and yet when she stands before her, she feels as if the Dwarf is looking down at her. She feels very small under her gaze. Unsure what else to do, she dips in a clumsy attempt at a curtsy.

“I – I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.” She murmurs, reciting the words Dara had taught her.

“Well,” Dís hums, “you have better manners than your father, at least.”

When she winces, the Dwarf smirks. “You seem very young. How old are you?”

“This will be my nineteenth winter.” She answers and the Dwarf’s eyebrows lift a fraction. Silently, Dís’ eyes rake over her, and she circles her like a predator would its prey. She glances over her shoulder at Dara, looking to her for courage for a second time, and the Dwarf smiles encouragingly. It doesn’t help. She chews on her lip, fighting the urge to flee the room.

“And you lived in Lake-town, before it was destroyed by the dragon?” Dís inquires, and she nods. “Before those fools _woke_ the dragon, I suppose I ought to say. I’m told I should thank you, for taking in my son. If not for your family and that Elf, he’d be dead.”

“It's what anyone would have done, Your Highness.”

“Come, let us talk more over tea.” The Princes’ mother says at last, and she sighs in relief. Her relief, however, is short-lived, as Dís looks at Dara when they sit down, seemingly noticing her for the first time. “Your friend may go,” she says, gesturing at the door.

Sigrid plays with the loose thread on her sleeve nervously, grimacing when she hears the door opening and closing. She looks at the Prince’s mother, who sits across from her, and forces herself to smile. _Don’t cry or get angry –_ she can do that. If she could spend years gritting her teeth and smiling politely whenever the Master or Alfrid spoke to her, she can talk to one Dwarf without getting upset.

“How was your journey?” She asks as Dís pours the tea.

“Long. Arduous. Thoroughly unenjoyable.” She sighs, her expression darkening into a scowl. “Though it was not nearly as perilous as my brother’s journey, I suppose I’m fortunate in that respect. They couldn’t go three steps without stumbling into trouble.”

She sips her tea, unsure what to say.

“My brother certainly has a gift,” Dís mutters. “He can rile any force known to Middle Earth.”

She just hums in response, wondering if insulting the King is considered treasonous to Dwarves.

“I fear something strange has befallen them on their quest,” Dís continues with a heavy sigh, “considering _you_ are the most traditional choice for my son. I suspect the wizard has something to do with it. Or something they ate, perhaps, that makes marrying an Elf and a Halfling seem perfectly sane. I’d put it down to my brother losing his wits again, but he seems of sound mind – when that Halfling of his isn’t around, at least. I do hope my son composes himself a little better around you.”

When she fails to answer, Dís raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

“I’m sorry,” she cries, wanting nothing more than to bury her head in her hands. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be rude. I know my place – or at least, I did once. I’m just a bargeman’s daughter. No one, really. I belong with fishermen, I’ve got no place in fancy halls and kingdoms. The only princesses I ever knew were in my mother’s stories. I never thought I’d be sitting across from one, drinking tea –”

Dís leans back in her chair, appraising her curiously.

“Humble, though a little self-deprecating, if I may say so. It’s an admirable trait, I suppose. Not one commonly found amongst Dwarves, however. Nor one that is greatly respected.” Dís says as she sips her tea, her expression difficult to read. “You didn’t ask for this, did you? I’d wager that you were told you were going to marry my son, and no one ever thought to ask you.”

“No, Your Highness, I was asked. I chose this.” She mumbles, uncomfortable under her gaze. She leaves a lot unsaid, and senses that the Dwarf understands that by the way her eyebrows raise slightly. “My father would never force me to do something I didn’t want to do.”

Dís sets down her tea, eyeing her discerningly. “No, but there is a difference between being forced and having no choice.”

“Come,” Dís says after a long moment of silence. “I need to stretch my legs.”

The Dwarf is on her feet and marching out the door before Sigrid has even set down her cup of tea. She hastily scrambles out of the chair and hurries after the Princes’ mother, wringing her hands nervously when she notices that Dara is nowhere to be found. She follows Dís down the long corridor, surprised at how quickly she moves with such short legs. The thick stone walls seem to echo every sound, making her certain – from the way the Princes’ mother keeps looking at her – that she can hear her heart racing.

Erebor is one overly large maze to her, and she is lost almost immediately.

But what she does recognise is the kitchens, and she freezes at the sight of Fíli. And his brother. And the King. And Master Baggins. And the mean, bald Dwarf who had threatened to tear Bain’s arms off. As well as Bofur and Balin. She glances at Dís, and sees that the Dwarf is scowling. Everyone in the room, with the exception of Master Baggins, seems to shrink under her gaze.

“You must be hungry.” Dís says, glancing at her briefly.

“Oh – no, I’m –”

The Dwarf scowls. “Don’t be ridiculous. Go sit with Fíli and Kíli while I have a word with my brother.”

The King’s head jerks up at that, and with a grimace, obediently gets to his feet. His scowl matches his sister’s as he walks towards her, muttering something under his breath. The sight makes her smile for a moment, before she realises that it’s a King and a Princess that’s amusing her. She quickly ducks her head and hurries over to the table, to the suddenly empty seat between the two Princes that hadn’t been there a minute ago. 

“Good morning,” she says when she lifts her head and notices everyone looking her way. She smiles at Master Baggins, who sits opposite her, and at Bofur, who tips his ridiculous hat at her. The Dwarf has finally forgiven her for throwing water on him, it seems. Feeling somewhat awkward while everyone tucks into their breakfast, she helps herself to a piece of bread and liberally spreads jam over it.

“I think Mum likes you.” Kíli says through a mouthful of food.

“I really doubt that.” Sigrid mutters, not lifting her gaze from her piece of bread.

“Oh no, she definitely does.” Kíli insists.

She frowns. “How do you know?”

“You’d know if she didn’t like you.” Kíli tells her, and for some reason her gaze meets Fíli’s for a moment. She looks away quickly, returning her gaze to her piece of bread. “If she starts yelling at you, it means she _really_ likes you. Mum scolds to show she cares.”

“She was perfectly nice, if a little terrifying.” She says and takes a bite of her piece of bread. It’s the most diplomatic answer she can think of.

“How’s Bain and little Tilda?” Bofur asks from the other end of the table.

“They’re well, thank you.” It’s not quite the honest truth, but it’s true enough not to be a lie. Tilda is strong, she can bounce back from anything, but both she and Bain suffer from nightmares and Bain flinches away from even the smallest flame.

“You have a bit –” Fíli mumbles and she frowns. “Here, let me.”

Before she even realises what he meant, he reaches out, holding her gaze while he gently wipes a little bit of jam from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. If her heart had been racing before, it suddenly feels like it’s trying to burst out of her chest. Her cheeks grow very warm and she looks away, awkwardly mumbling ‘thank you’ before she returns to her jam and bread.

She misses the look everyone gives them, and _especially_ misses the wink Bofur shoots Fíli’s way.

“Master Baggins, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” She says after a moment, after she has recovered. The Hobbit sets down his cutlery and lifts his head, looking intrigued. The others – not so much – the mean looking one, Dwalin is glaring at her, like she’s about to say something slanderous. “It’s about gardening. I was told Hobbits know a great deal.”

“Call me Bilbo,” the Hobbit laughs. “And of course, ask me whatever you like. I’d be glad to help.”

She grins. “Really? You don’t have to, of course – but I’d love to get your opinion on the soil in Dale. I asked some people in the markets and they say it’s hopeless, but I can’t give up, not if there’s a chance. It’s for my sister, you see. Tilda. She’s always wanted a garden, and after all that’s happened, I thought it might be good for her. It might help make it feel more like home.”

There’s something guilty about the way Bilbo looks at her, making her immediately regret ever having spoken.

She’s saved any further awkwardness by the return of Dís and the King, who returns to his seat red-faced and frowning. She pretends not to notice the looks he shoots Bilbo’s way when he thinks the Hobbit isn’t looking.

“I can have a look at the soil, and see if it’s salvageable – I don’t see why it shouldn’t be, though. In a lot of cases, I’ve heard that fire can actually be beneficial. I don’t see why dragon fire should be any different.” Bilbo tells her with a friendly smile. “I can stop by whenever you like, I won’t be going home until after the wedding.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be an inconvenience –”

“It would be my pleasure.” The Hobbit says.

And then she realises what he said.

“You’re leaving?” She quietly asks, inadvertently glancing at the King. The Dwarf’s face betrays nothing, but she sees his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists on his lap. She looks around her, at the faces of the other Dwarves, and notices how similar their expressions are. They look pained, utterly miserable at the thought of losing their friend, and the smiling Hobbit doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yes,” Bilbo laughs, “I’ve put off leaving for long enough.”

The King’s chair scrapes back across the stone floor and he gets to his feet.

“Dáin is expecting me.” He mutters, nodding at the Hobbit curtly before he storms out of the room. Bilbo stares after him, his smile quickly fading away. When the white-haired Dwarf, Balin follows him, excusing himself a little more politely, the Hobbit looks back at his breakfast with drawn eyebrows and pushes his plate away. She finds herself glancing at Fíli.

“If you’ll excuse us, Kíli and I promised to show Sigrid the treasury.” He says when she meets his eye.

Dís looks somewhat suspicious, but does not object. She finishes the rest of her bread and jam before she stands and follows Fíli and Kíli. The brothers walk on either side of her, Kíli all but dragging her out of the room. For the second time that day, she is surprised at how quick Dwarves are on their feet.

“They’re madly in love,” Kíli says when they’re alone, still holding onto her arm. “They just don’t know it yet. It’s a tragedy, really.”

“And yet you’re smiling. Why?”

“Because we’ve got a plan.” The Dwarf answers, exchanging a grin with his brother.

Kíli’s grip on her arm loosens and he skips ahead, turning so that he is walking backwards in front of them, a wide, mischievous grin plastered across his face. Fíli falls into step beside her, smiling when she looks his way. _It could be worse,_ she thinks as she looks at him.

But the sight of the golden bead in his hair makes her smile falter.

“And what is your plan, if you don’t mind my asking?” She asks, her gaze flickering back to the darkhaired Dwarf.

“Not here!” Kíli exclaims. “You never know who’s listening!”

She finds herself glancing over her shoulder unconsciously, half-expecting Dara to be following them in the shadows.

“Where are we going anyway?” She inquires when she looks back at the two Dwarves, the architecture painfully unfamiliar. She fears that she’ll have to leave breadcrumbs behind her whenever she goes anywhere, or else she’ll wind up wandering the halls night and day trying to find her way around. It’s either that, or she will resign herself to a life of constantly being chaperoned.

“The treasury.” Kíli answers with a shrug. “Figured you might want to take a look.”

“I thought you just said that as an excuse to leave.” She grins.

“He did.” Fíli whispers. “He’s just afraid our mother will have his beard if she hears he lied to her.”

“Well, we can’t be having that.” She laughs.

“What are you two whispering about?” Kíli asks suspiciously, his eyes narrowing.

“Nothing.” They both answer at once, and she ducks her head to hide her smile.

And then she sees it. She halts mid-step, unable to do anything but stare. Mountains of gold spread out as far as the eye can see and precious gems glitter in the candlelight. This was where the dragon slept all those years, just like the stories said, buried beneath the great wealth of the Dwarves of Erebor. Fíli and Kíli stare down at the riches of their people, and she think she sees something akin to pride in their eyes. She looks back at the gold, feeling only revulsion. What need did they have for such wealth?

“Tis very grand…” She murmurs, unsure what else to say.

She wonders if it is the gold that is cursed, or if the sickness dwells within the hearts of all Dwarves, lying in wait and biding its time. She finds herself looking at Fíli and Kíli, hoping – for their sake – that neither is true. But the greed of Dwarves is well known, it is something that many fear. She casts one final despairing glance at the gold before she turns away. Nothing good can come of it. A rich kingdom fairs well, but a treasure such as this – she fears that it will draw only ill, that some will look to the mountain once more as a prize for the taking.

“I’d like to leave now.” She says, surprising both Dwarves.

She doesn’t know if she can be married to someone who loves gold and jewels more than what’s really important in life.

She chews on her lip as she stalks away, pausing only when she hears Fíli call her name.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “It’s just – I ought to find Dara. She’ll wonder where I am.”

A lie, as plain as day, but neither Dwarf comments on it.

They’re walking back through the entrance hall, looking for Dara, when they’re spotted by a large group of Dwarves. They’re an intimidating bunch. They all look like different variations of Dwalin – tattooed and terrifying, carrying axes that are almost as tall as they are. The leader of the group, who shouts Fíli and Kíli’s name with a booming, echoing voice, looks somewhat familiar.

It’s only when he approaches them that she realises who he is.

“Lord Dáin,” Fíli says respectfully, “may I introduce Lady Sigrid of Dale.”

“By my beard! If it isn’t the blushing bride-to-be!” Lord Dáin exclaims, and snatches up her hand, kissing the back of it. His lips linger a little too long for her liking, making her shift uncomfortably. She wonders if it is a Dwarf thing, to be so overly familiar with strangers. “I don’t know why we haven’t been introduced sooner. I blame Fíli, for keeping you all to himself.”

She smiles somewhat uncertainly. “It – it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Dáin.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” The Dwarf says, with a wink that makes Fíli clear his throat.

She’s never been so grateful to see anyone when she spots Dara hurrying towards them, carrying a large, multi-coloured bundle.

“And who might this be?” Dáin laughs.

“Dara, of the Iron Hills.”

The Dwarf raises an eyebrow. “Your servant?”

“My friend.” She answers without hesitation.

Dara nods respectfully to Dáin and the two Princes before she turns to Sigrid.

“We have urgent business to attend to. No time for chit-chat.” The Dwarf says somewhat breathlessly, a hand shooting out from beneath the bundle to grab her arm. “There’s been a disagreement between the two dressmakers I have chosen. They both wish to be named Royal Dressmaker, and since there can only be one – we need to talk to the King. _Now.”_

“Do you know where Thorin is?” Fíli asks Dáin.

“No, lad. Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen him all day.”

“He left breakfast early to meet with you.” Fíli says and he exchanges a glance with his brother.

“I’d wager he’s around here somewhere, scowling.”  

“And avoiding his duties, as per usual.” One of the Dwarves standing behind Dáin mutters.

“Well,” Sigrid murmurs uncomfortably, “I ought to go.”

“I sincerely hope to see more of you in the future, Lady Sigrid.” Dáin says and kisses the back of her hand again.

With a face like a thundercloud, Dara pulls at her arm and tows her away.

“Oh, the nerve of that Dwarf.” Dara mutters, releasing her hold on her arm. “I don’t want you spending any more time than you have to around him. There’s talk – not everyone is happy under the King’s rule. They say it should be _Dáin_ on the throne, as it was his army who won the battle. Others say the King’s still under the curse, that he’s not right in the head.”

“People actually think that?” She asks, alarmed. “I thought all your lot loved the King…”

“Politics.” Dara spits. “It’s a dirty business.”

“So how do we remedy this disagreement? Will we have to talk to the King?”

“Oh, that?” Dara laughs. “When I heard about all the fuss they were making, I gave them both a stern talking to and they backed down almost immediately. No, no, I just said that to get you out of there. You looked like you needed rescuing – and if I hadn’t swooped in when I did, well, I think the Prince might have spoken out of turn.”

Dara rolls her eyes at her confusion expression and sighs.

“Dwarves don’t like sharing their treasure, Sigrid.” She says, as if it’s all suddenly meant to make sense.

“What did I tell you about your riddles?” She chides lightly.

“You’ll just have to work that one out for yourself.” Dara smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -hides-
> 
> it's 2am and i need to sleep. please let me know if there's any mistakes - i'm sure there will be, i'm sleepy and i've had way too much coffee. the next chapter should be up tomorrow -fingers crossed-
> 
> thanks for reading, my lovelies. hope you enjoyed it <3


	4. Chapter 4

The months go by quickly, and it’s remarkable, really, the change that Bilbo has brought about. In less than two months, the Hobbit has done more for her garden than she’d accomplished in almost half a year. Even the most stubborn weeds have been uprooted and the blackened earth has been replaced with rich, new soil. There will be flowers by next spring and trees for Tilda to play under.

The Hobbit is kind, and his help invaluable, but it is his final gift to her that secures him an unshakeable place in her heart. His gift – an early wedding present, he later calls it – is his own rooms. The rooms which King Thorin had altered specifically for him, knowing how much the Hobbit mourns the sunlight when trapped too long within the mountain. Windows line the outer walls, filling the rooms with light, and a large balcony overlooks the valley below. There is a small library, a large sitting room and a bathroom in the room next to her chambers.

And in the sitting room, opposite the hearth, is a locked wooden door.

She’s distracted by it, curious as to where it leads, and misses most of what Dara is telling her. It’s pointless, really – no amount of explaining can help her understand Dwarven ceremonies. Especially considering the fact that they refuse to let her learn their language. Soon she’ll be married, and she doesn’t even know how to say ‘hello’ to Fíli in his own, native tongue. Ridiculous.

But – as she has learned – there is little about Dwarves that make sense. They are strange, secretive creatures, but she has grown fond of a few of them. She looks back at Dara with a fond smile, to which the Dwarf narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“Smiling and batting your eyelashes isn’t going to work,” Dara chides. “You’ve got to learn this, wherever you like it or not.”

She supposes she ought to be grateful that her father insisted on a second ceremony, one for her, in the manner of her people. At least then she knows she’s getting married, rather than leaving it up to guessing and trusting the word of whoever is kind enough to translate. From what Dara has told her, she’s not required to say anything during the Dwarven ceremony – the King does all the speaking. There are no vows exchanged between her and her husband-to-be. For Dwarves, the acceptance of courting and the exchanging of beads equate to vows. All she needs to do is look like she’s listening, even though she won’t understand a word of it, and plait another braid into Fíli’s hair.

She’s almost more afraid of the ceremony in Dale than the Dwarvish one, for she knows exactly what that entails. She’ll have to make vows, promising her love and troth in front of dozens of people, to a Dwarf she barely knows. A small part of her is acutely aware of the fact that she’ll have to kiss him – Fíli is kind and handsome, and she knows she should consider herself lucky, but it doesn’t change how she feels. She has always wanted to marry for love, as her mother and father did, and instead, she’s marrying for gold and the future of her people.

It’s a noble cause, a worthy one, but all the same, she cannot help but wish things were different.

And if she had just a little more time, perhaps she wouldn’t be so afraid. Her hands tremble when there is a knock on the door, and then an army of Dwarves burst into her rooms, brandishing lace and combs instead of swords and shields. They push her down onto a chair in her chambers, fussing over her in a panic, with Dara governing them like a seasoned battle commander.

She closes her eyes to stop herself from crying.

Her dress is white and gold, made by both two royally appointed Dwarvish dressmakers and the dressmaker whose dresses in Lake-town she’d never have hoped to afford. Many long months have been spent labouring over this day, something she feels a stab of guilt about. It seems strange, that so much time and cost has been spent on one day – one entirely over lavish, pointless day – but this day is not for her or for Fíli, she has come to accept that.

While the strings of her corset are pulled uncomfortably tight, she lightly runs the tips of her fingers over the little pearls that are sewn into the lace bodice. Until that morning, she’d never seen a pearl before. She had not known what it was until Dara told her.

Her father is already waiting for her when she leaves her rooms, a steady arm to lean on.

“It’s not too late. You can still change your mind.” He whispers in her ear. She just looks at him and shakes her head. It’s much too late now.

There is a carriage at the gates, waiting to take them the short distance to Dale. The carriage jostles as the wheels bounce over stones and she looks at her father for courage. _If Da can kill a dragon and face an army of Orcs, I can do this one little thing._ The bells are ringing, she hears them as the carriage draws closer to the city. This is a day of celebration, she makes herself remember, and one her people have been looking forward to for a long time. She can’t reproach them for their excitement – it isn’t often the people of Dale have a reason to be joyful.

The carriage rolls up the cracked, cobblestone streets, coming to a halt outside the Great Hall. As her father helps her out of the carriage, her heart swells with pride. Seemingly overnight, they have managed to make this grim place beautiful. Flowers are strewn across the ground and ribbons are tied around the blackened branches of dead trees, catching in the breeze. The courtyard is filled with people, cheering and smiling, looking happier than they’ve been in a long time. She spots several members of the King’s Company – Bilbo, Bofur and Óin – and lastly she sees Fíli, stood before the doors of the Great Hall, with his brother by his side.

Fíli looks handsome, in a dark blue tunic, gleaming armour, and a long fur coat hanging from his shoulders. The sight of a sword hanging at his hip almost makes her smile. Dwarves never seem to go anywhere without being armed to the teeth.

When she meets his gaze at last, he grins.

The heavy train of her dress brushes across the ground, catching the early autumn leaves. People are touching her, patting her shoulders as she passes. The sight of Tilda, stood with the Dwarves, and grinning from ear to ear with a crown made from flowers makes her smile for a moment. Bain looks less happy, but he still manages to give her a weak smile as she passes. The doors to the Great Hall groan as they open and her father pauses, pressing a kiss to her temple before he lets her go.

She almost doesn’t recognise the Great Hall. She remembers this as the place they hid in during the fighting; where they took shelter after the battle was won, wounded and mourning and huddled together to keep out the cold. She’d had so many nightmares about this place, terrible dreams where her father arrived too late, and Orcs broke through the doors. But she isn’t frightened of this place anymore. Lit by dozens of candles, with flowers tucked into the cracks in the walls and coloured ribbons wrapped around the backs of the wooden benches, it has a quiet sort of beauty that she appreciates, with none of the grandeur that Dwarves prefer.

Fíli holds out his arm and she hesitates only for a moment before she takes it, her arm sliding through his. _It could be worse,_ she thinks for what has to be the hundredth time. There is something steady about him, something in the way that he looks at her that makes her feel less afraid. They take their place at the heart of the room, with friends and family streaming into the hall, taking their seats in front of them. Her father, Tilda and Bain sit in the front row with Kíli, Bofur, Bilbo, Dara, and Óin.

Percy, her father’s right hand man, presides over the ceremony. In another life, it might have been the Master of Lake-town officiating her wedding. Percy grins at her and claps Fíli on the shoulder before he begins.

Her hands tremble, and she barely hears the words which Percy reads aloud. Fíli’s gaze flickers from her face to her hands, turning his own so that he might hold hers. His hand is warm and his fingers slide through hers, and just for a moment, she breathes a little easier, feeling an all too brief sense of peace. But then someone clears their throat, and she blinks, thrown from her reverie.

“…May you be healthy all your days, may you be blessed with long life and peace, and may you grow old with goodness, and with riches.” Percy recites, his voice echoing around the silent hall. It’s all a bit of a blur. So many words to be repeated and recited, so many vows to be promised. Numbly, she manages to tune most of it out. It feels almost as if someone else is stood in her place, speaking the words for her. Up until one moment, when Percy reaches out with a smile and grasps her shoulder. “Who gives this woman?”

Her father stands. “I do.”

“And who gives this man – er – Dwarf?”

“Oh, that’s me.” Kíli laughs. “I do.”

“Now – if you please, repeat after me. I take you, Fíli, son of Dís, at the rising of the moon and the setting of the stars.”

She repeats the words softly as she takes Fíli’s ring from Kíli and slides it carefully onto his finger. Her hands are shaking, Fíli must see that, but she prays that no one else notices. “To love and to honour through all that may come. Through all our lives together. In all our lives, May we be reborn, that we may meet and know, and love again, and remember.”

“And I take you, Sigrid, daughter of Bard, at the rising of the moon and the setting of the stars. To love and to honour through all that may come.” Fíli repeats as he takes her hand gently and slides a ring onto her finger. His eyes, soft in the candlelight, never leave hers. “Through all our lives together. In all our lives, may we be reborn, that we may meet and know, and love again, and remember.”

Percy smiles. “You may kiss your bride.”

The kiss is brief, a chaste brush of lips that is over before it even began.

“One down, one to go.” Fíli murmurs, surprising a laugh out of her. He takes her hand once more and they walk together out of the Great Hall. Her father and Dara follow closely behind them, smiling, with tears running down the Dwarf's cheeks. And in that, she is not alone. When they step out of the hall to a sea of watery smiles, Fíli’s gaze flits to hers, looking confused.

“It’s a wedding,” she whispers. “Everyone cries at weddings.”

She looks back before she climbs into the carriage, seeking out Bain and Tilda’s faces in the crowd. They’re standing with Bilbo, smiling, and looking happy. Her only wish is that she can bring them with her, that she doesn’t have to go through the rest of this without them. She will have her father’s constant, steadfast presence by her side through anything, but all the same, it feels as if there’s suddenly a distance between them that was never there before. For so long, they only had each other. But things are different now. Things are better.

Fíli helps her into the carriage and takes a seat opposite her, his carefully composed expression slipping away when they are alone. He never asked to marry her, he’s merely doing his duty, the same as her. She feels some of the tension leave her shoulders, breathing a little easier, knowing that she isn’t in this alone. Everything she feels, he must feel too. And when he meets her gaze, she smiles faintly.  

“Do Dwarves do  _anything_  without armour on?” She asks in a mock-serious tone.

Fíli laughs, and for a moment, she swears she catches him blushing.

“Some things.” He answers quietly, not quite meeting her eye. There’s a notably pink tinge to his cheeks that makes her smile. When she laughs, he looks up in surprise and meets her gaze. She presses the back of her hand to her lips, trying in vain to hold back her laughter. That same soft, warm look she’d seen in his eyes during the ceremony is there, it lingers for a moment before turning into amusement.

The moment is sadly short-lived.

The carriage rolls to a stop outside the gates of Erebor. The carriage door is thrown open and they are quickly ushered out, escorted into the mountain kingdom by a band of Dwarves brandishing axes. Their heavily armed, cheering escort leads them to the throne room, leaving them at the long walkway that looks over the halls below, surrounded by great statues of the kings of old.

Fíli offers her his arm and she takes it, holding onto him as they walk across the pillared bridge to the King. The King cuts an intimidating figure, sat upon his throne with Dáin on one side of him, and Balin and Dwalin on the other. His smile is brief and he inclines his head in greeting to them both. They kneel before him on the stone floor, and he begins his blessing.

She does as she was instructed, she pretends to look like she’s listening, even though she doesn’t know what is being said. As the King’s blessing drags on, her attention is stolen by the jewel that is fixed above his throne. The Arkenstone. She’d seen it once before. It had been peeking out of the pocket of her father’s coat, letting her catch a brief glimpse of it before he rode to speak with the King. It’s even more remarkable up close, unlike anything she’d ever seen before. It’s undoubtedly beautiful, but not worth fighting a war over.

When Balin clears his throat, she blinks in surprise. She glances at Fíli and releases her hold on his arm, realising what they were waiting for her to do. Her fingers tremble under the King’s gaze and she chews on her lip nervously as she pulls the courting bead from his hair. Fíli takes the new bead from his breast pocket and holds out his hand. She takes the new bead, etched with different runes, and pressing the old one into the palm of his hand.  She braids his hair as neatly and as quickly as she can, and attaches the gold bead to the end of his hair.

When she draws her hands away, he grins.

Fíli’s more practiced hands are steady, carting carefully through her hair. When he fixes a gold bead that matches his own onto the end of her braid and takes hold of her hand, Dáin lets out a cheer and Balin and Dwalin both clap. The King holds out his hands, gesturing for them to stand. She rises to her feet unsteadily, her knees aching after kneeling so long on the cold, stone floor.

“Enough with the formalities, cousin! Now, we feast!” Dáin shouts, pounding his chest with his fist.

Dara has spent months preparing her for the feast, a great celebration that stretches on long into the night. Hundreds of Men and Dwarves fill Erebor’s great banquet hall, the sounds of voices rising high above the soft melodies of the musicians, who are tucked away in the corner of the hall, preparing their instruments. A great cheer rises up when she and Fíli walk through the doors, followed closely by Lord Dáin and the King. The hall has been decorated beautifully, new crystal and gold chandeliers hang from the ceilings and little lights are fixed onto the walls, looking a little like fireflies from afar. She can see Bilbo’s hand in all the flowers and in the new tapestries that are hung up behind the King’s chair, depicting the dragon’s defeat and the King’s return to the Lonely Mountain.

“The first dance is starting,” Fíli tells her as the musicians call for quiet. He holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

She takes his hand, allowing him to lead her to the heart of the hall. As the music begins and one of Fíli’s hands settles on her waist, she hears Dara’s voice in her head.  _One, two, three. Spin. One, two, three._ Her nerves make her clumsy and she forgets the steps Dara had taught her, but she is nothing compared to Fíli. The Dwarf spins her when everyone else is turning, and they turn when all the others spin. He stumbles over her skirts, steps on her toes, and one of his beads manages to hit him in the eye.

“Forgive me,” he says when he pulls at her hand too hard and she stumbles against him.

They are close. Very close. His hand is big and warm at her waist, and her hands are braced against his broad chest, the hard metal of his armour cold under her fingertips. Her gaze flits to his lips, watching as the corners of his mouth tug down unhappily. She notices it then – the watchful gaze they are under. The other dancers are circling around them, spinning perfectly in time, laughing and smirking. She feels a flash of anger, not for her sake, but Fíli’s. He doesn’t deserve to be laughed at and ridiculed.

“It’s alright,” she breathes. “Just follow my lead.”

She takes his hand in hers again. “One, two, three…” She counts under her breath. “One, two, three. Spin.”

The Dwarf stares up at her for a moment, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. When she squeezes his hand, he blinks, and his eyes narrow in concentration. As they resume the dance, he counts along in time to the music with her. They move through the rest of the dance somewhat clumsily, but without injury, and when it ends, they both sigh in relief.

“Would you like to sit down? I believe the feast should be starting soon.” He tells her.

She nods wordlessly, grateful for the escape. He leads her across the hall, never releasing his hold on her hand. But – to her surprise – she finds that she doesn’t mind so much. It’s the watchful eyes, following their every move, which makes her uncomfortable.

At the King’s table, sits her father and the Elven King, Thranduil. His presence makes her search for Tauriel through the crowds of people, but to her disappointment, the Elf is nowhere to be found. The King sits at the head of the long table, with Dáin to his left and Fíli to his right. She takes a seat beside the Dwarf Prince, smiling when Bilbo slides into the empty place beside her.

Dwarven feasts are a thing to be feared. Seventeen courses, mostly meat, with not a vegetable in sight, served with great goblets filled with mead and ale. More food than her family would have seen in a year, no doubt, back home in Lake-town. She sips at the same glass of wine throughout the feast, watching the Dwarves attempt to drink Bilbo under the table. But the Hobbit is surprisingly resilient for someone so small, and is the only one left able to form coherent sentences when the night is done.

For all her worrying, she’d forgotten the one definite thing that came out of a wedding –

As if senses her thoughts, Fíli lifts his head and meets her gaze.

“The hour is late.” He leans in close to tell her, his breath warm against her neck. She fights the urge to recoil. She glances at the others and is inclined to agree with him. The King disappeared to his chambers hours ago, her father must have slipped away sometime during the feast and has not returned, and most of the Dwarves are passed out with their heads on the table. “Would you like me to escort you back to your chambers?”

She is tempted to refuse, but she does not know the way. She has no choice but to accept.

When she stands, she feels Fíli’s hand at the small of her back, lingering there for just a moment. He guides her through the hall wordlessly  and clasps his hands behind his back. No one seems to notice them leave. The long hallways are quiet. Neither of them speak as they walk, the only sound she can hear is the echoing of their footsteps. She breathes a little easier, now that they are alone.

When they reach the doors to her chambers and there is a small, awkward pause before she reaches for the doorhandle. Fíli’s hand reaches out and stops her, drawing her away from the door. He gently takes her hand in his own and lifts it to his lips.

 _“Zabadinhuh,”_ he sighs. She frowns at the unfamiliar word.

“What does it mean?” She asks, even though she is certain he’ll refuse to tell her.

“It means -” He begins to say, then stops and laughs to himself. “Why don’t I teach you? I’m no scholar like Ori, but I know enough.”

She blinks in surprise. “You would do that? I thought it was supposed to be a secret?”

“It is, but you’re my wife now. I don’t like the thought of keeping secrets from you.”

She doesn’t know what to say, and they stand in silence for a moment. When her gaze flickers between him and the door nervously, he sighs. He lifts her hand to his lips once more, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

“Goodnight, my lady.” He says.

And then he’s gone, walking down the corridor, away from her.

She steps into her chambers, feeling a strange mixture of confusion and relief. She undresses before the large hearth in the sitting room, hanging her wedding dress over the back of a chair. She never notices that the mysterious wooden door in her sitting room is unlocked, left ajar. Not until the morning, when she hears it quietly close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this is late and a little description heavy (i got a little carried away, wedding feels~), but i was reading through what i'd written and i just wasn't happy with it. i couldn't find much canon information about weddings, so i patched together bits from other fanfics i've read, some stuff from braveheart (shh i love that movie) and some old celtic and gaelic traditions.
> 
>  _Zabadinhuh_ \- My Lady


	5. Chapter 5

Bilbo Baggins leaves the Lonely Mountain a week after the wedding, just like he promised.

Sorrow seems to hang in the air like a heavy mist. No one is left untouched.

She stands with the King’s Company on the battlements, watching the Hobbit ride away. Her eyes follow the little figure and his pony, riding alongside Gandalf, Thranduil and a host of Elves. The Hobbit looks back only once, when he is too far for them to see his face. He lifts his hand in a parting wave, an action that finally seems to break through the King’s careful composure. King Thorin’s stony expression betrays him, and for a moment, she sees a depth of sadness in his eyes that he struggles to hide.

When the Hobbit turns away, Thorin bows his head and leaves the battlements without a word. Her eyes follow him as he walks away, watching the change in him when he thinks no one can see. His shoulders hunch as he walks down the steps, his forehead creased in sorrow.

She stares after him, even after he has disappeared from sight, thinking it strange that she feels such sympathy for someone she barely knows. But how terrible it must be, to love like that. To care for someone without reason or hope, receiving only sadness in return. She cannot help but pity him. When she feels Fíli’s hand brush lightly against hers, with a hesitancy that has followed the Dwarf ever since the morning after their wedding, she looks back at him and frowns slightly at his glum expression.

“He’ll be back.” She tells him. “He told me so himself.”

Fíli’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “He did?”

When she nods, the Dwarf smiles slightly. She is certain that Bilbo will return, she doubts that the comforts of home will keep him content forever. But all the same, she knows she’ll miss the Hobbit. Perhaps not quite as keenly as the Dwarves, but in her own way.

When the other Dwarves leave the battlements, returning to their duties, she and Fíli linger. It is warm by the braziers, the morning surprisingly cool for late summer. Her gaze flickers to Dale, to the broken rooves and charred walls, which look so much worse from afar. She can barely see the Long Lake from here, only the faintest glimmer of the water. Her lips twist wistfully, missing her home. Perhaps Bilbo was right to leave, if this is what he feels. It is a pain she would not wish on anyone, not even her worst enemy.

“I fear the entire mountain is going to be in mourning, my uncle especially, until our burglar returns.” Fíli says as he leans against the ramparts. He meets her gaze and half-smiles. “But in the meantime, I have an idea.” 

“Oh? And what’s that?” She asks, intrigued.

“Well,” he says in a low voice, glancing around them first to make sure no one was listening. “I did say I was going to teach you Khuzdul, didn’t I? I don’t have anything I need to be doing right now. Do you?”

 When she shakes her head – perhaps a tad too enthusiastically – he grins.

“I know the perfect place,” he says. “No one will bother us there.”

He pushes away from the ramparts and waltzes past her at a leisurely pace. She follows without hesitation, hurrying across the battlements after him. When he grins up at her, she is glad that the awkwardness lingering between them has seemingly passed. They walk together in a surprisingly comfortable silence, unbothered by anyone as they stroll through the mountain. Everyone is busy – or at least, pretending to be – and looking glum as they go about their daily activities. She wonders if Bilbo knows just how much he will be missed.  

They pass through the long entrance hall and up a set of stairs. She quickly loses track of where they are, recognising where they are only when they reach one of the walkways that leads to the throne room. The throne lays empty, the King elsewhere. As they pass by the throne, something catches her attention. The Arkenstone. It’s gone. She pauses mid-step, staring at the empty slot where the stone had sat only a week ago. She reaches out, grabbing Fíli’s sleeve, tugging on it until he stops and looks at her.

With a frown, he follows her gaze. He stares at the empty place on the throne for a moment, his expression difficult to read.

“He took it down,” he tells her with a small, rueful smile. “When he heard Bilbo was leaving.”

“Your uncle did?” She inquires, and he nods. “Why?”

“I’m not sure.” Fíli replies, frowning when he looks away from the throne. “But I think he was going to give it to him.”

She has heard people call it the King’s jewel, the Heart of the Mountain. There’s something sad about the idea that the King tried to give it to Bilbo, only to have him leave anyway. When Fíli starts walking again, stalking determinedly away from the throne, she quickly hurries after him. Fíli leads her to a seemingly forgotten part of the mountain, where thick cobwebs hang from the ceilings, dragon fire has darkened the stone, and claw marks slash across the walls. She shivers at the thought of the dragon being in the very halls they now walk through. They pass through an archway, into a large library. The room is filled with dusty wooden shelves that tower high above them, some reaching the ceiling, with rows and rows of old books and scrolls.

“Ori’s the only one who comes here.” He tells her.

Fíli takes a seat at what she imagines is Ori’s work station, as it is one of the only areas not covered in a thick layer of dust, and props his feet up on the table. He picks up a scroll at random and pulls a face, tossing it aside almost immediately. She sits down opposite him, picking up a thick tome. She handles it carefully, with a little more consideration, and runs her fingers along the lines of a rune.   

“What does it mean?” She queries curiously, showing him the cover of the book.

“A brief history of Khazad-dûm.” He reads, then scowls down at the book. “Volume three.”

He takes the book from her and sets it aside. “Ori should find something more interesting to read than this.”

“Khazad-dûm?” She wonders aloud. “What is that?”

“Moria. An ancient Dwarven kingdom in the east, beneath the Misty Mountains.” He tells her. A small crease forms in between his eyebrows and he suddenly looks away. “It was there that the Battle of Azanulbizar took place, where King Thrór was killed.”  

She frowns. “Were you there?”

“No,” he replies, “I was not yet born.”

“How old are you?” It is something she has wondered about for some time.

“Eighty three.” He answers, his eyes flickering to her face. When her eyebrows lift a fraction, he smirks. “You seem surprised.”

“That’s because most of the eighty three year olds I know can barely walk, have no teeth, and grey hair.” She laughs, her eyes roaming the Dwarf’s face for signs of age. But she finds nothing. In her eyes, he is young. Far too young to be decades older than her father. Dwarves are, indeed, strange creatures, she decides. “They don’t look like…”

He chuckles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

 _And so you should,_ she thinks to herself.

“ _Shamukh_ ,” he says, and she raises her eyebrows. “It means ‘hello’.”

She repeats the word to herself. “Fíli, _zai adshânzon._ At your service. It’s how we greet each other.”

“And this?” She asks, touching the golden bead that hangs below her jaw. “What do the runes mean?”

“ _Yâsith.”_ He tells her. “Wife.”

She hums quietly, tracing the shape of the runes with the tip of her finger. She smiles faintly, glad to know what it means. She had assumed something worse. “You are  _yâsithuh.”_ He continues and she repeats the word under her breath. “My wife.”

She pauses at that. Sometimes, she can almost forget that he’s her husband. That she’s married to a Dwarf. That she’s married to a Prince. ‘ _Tis very strange,_ she thinks to herself. It is all too much to get used to, and yet… Not so much has changed, in truth. Not as she feared, anyway. No one bows or scrapes to her, and if it weren’t for all the staring, it would be as if nothing had changed.

“ _Yâsithuh.”_ She repeats, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

Fíli smiles warmly. “Almost. But it’s more… guttural. There’s nothing musical about Khudzul. We leave that to the Elves. They can keep their flowery nonsense. Why use ten words, when you can use one? Or none at all. An axe to the head is as good as a thousand words.”

“I can see you inherited your uncle’s view on diplomacy,” she laughs. “But why keep it a secret? Why hide your language from everyone else? What do you fear might happen if someone else were to learn your tongue?”

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs. “I’m sure Balin or Ori could tell you, they know our histories better than I. It’s mostly used in battle, or to insult a person without them knowing.” He laughs at that and runs his fingers through his hair. “All the greatest insults are in Khudzul.”

She grins. “Like what?”

“ _Khahum menu rkhas shirumundu_.” He smirks. “Or my uncle’s favourite –  _ishkh khakfe andu null!_ ”

There’s a gasp, followed by a loud bang. A moment later, Ori sticks his head around one of the shelves.

“I didn’t know you were in here, Ori.” Fíli says, not sounding the least bit ashamed.

“You can’t use that sort of language in front of a lady!” Ori exclaims as he scuttles around the shelf, picking up the books he’d dropped. She rises to her feet, feeling somewhat awkward, and helps him to pick up his books, which are more heavy tomes covered in decade’s old dust. He offers her a brief, grateful smile, before he returns his attention to Fíli.

She’s tempted to tell him that she grew up amongst bargemen and fishermen, and so no language – no matter how colourful or profane – could shock her, but she doubts that will be well received. Instead, she glances at Fíli and raises her eyebrows expectantly. The Dwarf blinks at her for a moment before shifting his feet off of the table and getting to his feet.

“Dreadfully sorry, Ori. I forgot my manners there for a moment. Won’t happen again.” His smile is so sincere, she almost believes him. Ori, on the other hand, rolls his eyes. He sets his books down on the table and turns to face them, crossing his arms over his chest. He glances between the two of them with a weary sigh. “You have my apologies,” Fíli continues, placing his hand over his heart, “for interrupting your work. I didn’t think anyone would be down here. Not today, anyway.”

“I suppose I’d be wasting my breath, if I told you to be careful. Your uncle won’t be pleased if he hears about these… lessons, Fíli. And he has enough to contend with right now, so don’t burden him with this.” Ori says, the corner of his lips tugging down unhappily.

“No one will find out,” Fíli swears.

“We’ll let you get back to your work now.” She says. “It was nice seeing you again, Ori.”

Fíli smirks as they retreat from the library, leaving Ori to his books. It’s quiet, peaceful, in this part of the mountain. She’ll have to draw herself a map, so that she might find her way back here. As they walk through the empty corridors, she repeats the words Fíli taught her under her breath, something which the Dwarf chuckles at. She’s surprised, how strangely easy it is to be in his company. Often, the silence is stifling, every word so awkward and forced. And yet today… it feels almost as if something has changed between them.

“So much for our lesson,” he mutters. “But not to worry, I’ll figure out a better place for us.”

 _For us._ The thought is sweet. Something utterly unexpected. And though she is not entirely sure why, the look of determination of his face makes her smile. Her eyes are drawn to her left hand, to the simple gold ring, engraved with little markings and runes.

“I know a place,” she finds herself saying. “Where no one will disturb us.”

Fíli glances at her curiously. “The sitting room in my chambers. Dara is the only one allowed in there without asking me first.”

“It’s almost time for lunch.” He tells her. “Shall we eat first? Or have you something else you need to be doing?”

“I usually take my meals with Dara, but I’m sure she won’t mind. I just need to tell her I won’t be eating with her today.” She says, blinking in surprise when she realises that they’ve reached the throne room already. They walk along the bridge and descend the stairs into the entrance hall. Dwarves stare as they pass. Some nod respectfully to their Prince, while others gawk unashamedly.

“You go ahead,” she says. “I’ll meet you in the dining hall.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, and she nods. He hesitates for a moment. “Let me at least escort you to your chambers.”

“It’s alright,” she mumbles. “I know the way.”

Fíli reaches out, taking her hand. His fingers wrap loosely around hers and he lifts her hand to his lips.

“I will see you soon then.” He smiles, his lips warm against the back of her hand.

She nods, and ducks her head as she walks away, hiding her flushed cheeks from watchful eyes. It’s not far to her chambers, and she walks hurriedly, keeping her head down. She calls out Dara’s name as she throws open the doors to her chambers, and sighs in relief when she receives no response, glad for a brief moment of respite. Her wedding dress is still where she left it, hanging over the back of a chair. Her gaze lingers on it for a moment before she walks through to the small library in search of a piece of parchment.

A flash of light catches her eye, a glint of sunlight reflecting off of something shiny. She approaches it curiously, certain she’d never seen it there before. A silvery shirt sits folded on the desk, with a piece of parchment resting on top of it. She glances around her apprehensively, feeling as if she’s doing something she ought not to do. She reluctantly picks up the note, reading the few hastily written words.

 _Please return to Thorin with my humble gratitude. It is far more than any Baggins deserve_ s.

She sets down the piece of parchment and lifts up the silvery shirt, examining it curiously. Not a shirt at all, but armour. Feather light, silvery armour, unlike anything she’d seen before. Pretty to look at, and as hard as steel. She looks around her for a second time, looking for anything else the Hobbit might have left behind. Some books have been taken from the shelves, the map of the mountain which had hung on the wall is gone, and the little acorn which had sat on the window shelf is nowhere to be seen.

She retreats to the sitting room, clutching the silvery armour in one hand and Bilbo’s note in the other.

She walks to the door, deciding that she will give these things to Fíli. He will know what to do with them. It is as she walks through her sitting room, that there’s a bang in the room next door. Her gaze flickers to the mysterious, locked door. She pauses, wondering if she had merely imagined it, and then a moment later, she hears a muffled yell. Curiosity gets the better of her.

She approaches the door cautiously, half-certain that it will still be locked. She shouldn’t look, she knows that; she doesn’t know where the door leads, and Fíli is waiting for her.  She reaches out, grasping the doorhandle. The handle turns, and the door creaks slowly open. 

The door opens to a sitting room, almost identical to her own. There’s a large hearth, comfortable looking chairs, paintings on the walls, a harp sat in the corner, and a King kneeling in the centre of the room. King Thorin lifts his head at the sound of her approach, his eyes haunted, looking like a man driven mad by grief. His crown lies on the floor, discarded.

“Leave me,” she hears him say, his voice barely more than a whisper.

When she doesn’t move, when she lingers, the King slams his fist against the ground.

“Did you not hear me?” He yells. “I said –”

And then he sees it. His eyes fall upon the silvery shirt she holds, and his movements still.

“How did you come by this?” He asks as he gets to his feet. He staggers towards her and snatches the armour from her grasp. When he looks at her, she recognises the look in his eyes. It is one she has seen before. She has seen it in the eyes of her people, struggling and desperate, after losing everything. And she saw it once, in her father’s eyes, after fever took her mother from them.

She hands him the note, supposing it is what Bilbo intended.

The King takes the slip of paper from her, thick brows drawing together as his eyes skim over the words.

“He gave this to you?” He asks, not lifting his gaze.

She shakes her head. “I found it. In my rooms.”

“They are not your rooms.” He snaps, looking back at her with a darkening expression.

“They were a gift, from Bilbo.” She says, and the Dwarf flinches at the sound of his name.

“Yes…” He sighs wearily, dragging his hands down his face. “Forgive me. I had forgotten. These rooms are Fíli’s now.” He looks down at his hands, at Bilbo’s note and the silvery shirt. “One final insult… But there is only so much one Dwarf can take...”

When he stalks away from her, clutching Bilbo’s things to his chest, and sinks into one of the chairs in front of the fire, she knows she ought to walk away. It isn’t her place to offer comfort to those so high above her station. And yet – no one, whether they are a King or not, deserves to be left alone in their grief. She approaches him hesitantly, and finds herself sitting down on the chair next to his.

The King is quiet, brooding. He frowns at the flames flickering in the fireplace, with Bilbo’s things still clutched to his chest.

“I – I’m sorry for intruding.” She eventually feels the need to say. “I didn’t know – I heard a noise and I thought –”

“Enough.” He sighs. “It was good of you to bring me this.”

She smiles hesitantly. “’Tis nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing.” He mutters, a dark and contemplative look in his eyes. “Most would have kept this from me.”

“To save you the pain?” She wonders.

He laughs humourlessly. “What would you know of it? You’re a child. You know nothing –”

“I know more than you think,” she murmurs reprovingly. “I don’t believe Bilbo’s intent was to hurt you. You know as well as I do what it’s like to have your home taken from you. But Bilbo still has a home. His is out there, waiting for him. So I would not think of it as him leaving you, but him returning to where he believes he needs to be. I don’t doubt that he will return, when he is ready.”

 _Home._ It still hurts to think of it. Even after almost two years, it remains an open wound, a broken piece of her heart that refuses to heal. If she closes her eyes, she can picture it so clearly. The wooden floorboards that creaked and groaned, the ratty curtains which were older than she was, their drawings lovingly pinned up on the walls, the small portrait of her mother on her father’s bedside table… It breaks her heart, thinking about all that she has lost. She can understand why Bilbo would give up all that he had gained, for his home.

“Forgive me,” he sighs. “I did not mean…”

She rises to her feet, feeling the threat of tears rising in her eyes.

The King bows his head, but says no more.

“I’m sorry for intruding, Your Majesty. I’d best be going now.” She announces somewhat awkwardly, and flees the room. She closes the wooden door behind her, roughly wiping away the tears threatening to spill over. _Home._ Her gaze settles on her wedding dress again, sitting folded over the back of a chair. She had married Fíli to ensure her people’s safety, to that they might have a home once more. But Dale… Dale is not her home. Her home lies at the bottom of the lake, burned and broken beyond repair.

She wants to hide in her rooms in despair, weep until all her tears are spent, but a small part of her remembers the warmth of Fíli’s lips on her hand. The Dwarf will be waiting for her, and she cannot leave him to wonder where she is. After all the kindness he has shown her, he deserves more than that. She scribbles a note for Dara, explaining where she is, and scrubs her damp cheeks with the sleeve of her dress, steeling herself against the familiar ache which accompanies every thought and memory of her home.

She leaves her rooms, keeping her head down as she walks to the dining hall. This part of the mountain is quiet, Dwarves don’t loiter when it’s meal-time. At first glance, the dining hall is empty when she arrives, and her heart sinks just a little in disappointment. But then she notices him, crouched in front of the hearth, tending to the dying flames.

He lifts his head as she approaches, looking up at her with a smile.

“I thought you’d forgotten.” He says as he gets to his feet.

“I got lost.” She might have regretted the lie, if it weren’t for the way he smiles. She blinks, wondering how it’s possible that she was so unhappy only moments ago. His smile – so warm and cheerful – is an unexpected remedy.

 _“Shamukh.”_ He says.

“ _Sh-Shamukh.”_ She stumbles over the word, but he doesn’t seem to care.

They take a seat at the table nearest the hearth, sitting opposite each other. There is food already laid out, two large bowls of soup, a loaf of bread, and wine. It’s a little much for so early in the day, but when he sees his somewhat sheepish expression, she feels herself smile.

She cuts herself a piece of bread, with her elbows finding their way to the table’s edge and her posture relaxing. If Dara saw her, she’d never heard the end of it. But it’s easy for her to forget her manners when it’s like this. It’s even easier for her to forget that he’s a prince. She dips her bread into the soup, recognising it as one of Bombur’s. He’s one of the only Dwarves she’s met that isn’t repulsed by leafy vegetables. She’s almost finished her soup when she notices that Fíli has barely touched his own, and is hiding a small grin behind his glass of wine.

“What?” She mumbles, hiding her mouthful of food behind her hand.

He shakes his head, smiling to himself. “Nothing.”

But he’s still smiling when he sets down his wine glass and turns his attention to his soup. She finds herself smiling too, for reasons she can’t quite understand – or perhaps, isn’t ready to understand. Not yet, at least. For now, she enjoys the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been awake almost 24 hours. this is a product of me pulling an all-nighter, hoping i'll actually get some studying done, and instead re-watched every episode of sherlock and wrote this mess. if it's terrible and makes no sense, i'm so sorry.
> 
> Khahum menu rkhas shirumundu - Your clan are beardless orcs
> 
> p.s don't worry, bilbo's like the terminator. he will be back.


	6. Chapter 6

She wonders what’s wrong with her, when all the others smile and gasp at the sight of her gift.

Another necklace. A gold locket, with a crown and seven stars etched onto the large round face. Each star is dotted with a diamond. The necklace sits in the palm of her hand, heavy. Dwarves, she decides, are like magpies, gathering shiny things to themselves. She wonders if gold and jewels mean to Dwarves, what flowers mean to others. She wonders if they have a meaning, if they have a language of their own.

Fíli has learnt from his previous attempt, it seems. He did not deliver the gift in person, like before, but through a servant, when she is with his mother and her guests – knowing all too well that she cannot reject his gift, not when so many are watching. Her gaze flits in Dara in a panic, and the Dwarf just shrugs unhelpfully. _Don’t think about it,_ she tells herself. _It’s the thought that counts._ And yet – how can he expect her to accept such a thing? She can’t imagine how much it must have cost him. A small fortune, no doubt.

“Well?” Dáin’s wife interrupts her thoughts. “Is it to your liking?”

She blinks, fingers unconsciously curling around the locket. “Yes, it – it’s lovely.”

Dáin’s wife hums, seeming pleased. The only Dwarf in the room not to have inspected the locket curiously, and croon and cluck over it, is Dís. The Princes’ mother remains seated by her harp, fingers plucking idly at the strings, looking on with only mild interest. Her expression changes, however, when she meets her gaze. For a moment, she looks almost annoyed. But then she smiles and Sigrid releases the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. When her attention returns to her harp, she tucks the locket into her dress pocket.

The Dwarves mustered in Princess Dís’ rooms are very grand, all high-ranking, and most are of noble stock. Some are the wives and daughters of Generals, others are important political figures, and several of them are masters of their craft, something which is highly respected amongst Dwarves. They all cut an intimidating figure, wearing just as much armour as jewels and jewellery.

She’s never felt like more of an outsider than amongst them.

“Is it true that your father is to be crowned the King of Dale?” The Dwarf to her right asks.

She chews on her lip in thought, unsure how to answer. “Nothing is set in stone yet.”

“But it is true, then? Your father hopes to be crowned?” The Dwarf presses.

“He doesn’t hope it, no.” She answers, her tone a little sharper than she’d intended. “Da’s never cared much for power – the titles people keep giving him make him uncomfortable – but it’s what my people want. They’ve been talking about amongst themselves for some time now, but I don’t believe he’ll be crowned yet, not until Dale is at least somewhat rebuilt.”

“It does seem to be taking an awfully long time.” Someone adds, much to her annoyance.

“I beg to differ, I think they've done very well for themselves – for Men, at least. And progress will move swifter now, with so many Dwarves flocking to the city for work. That fourteenth share of the treasure has to go somewhere, after all.” Another replies haughtily, earning a murmur of agreement. As if her father hadn’t been spending the gold given to them wisely, as if he’d been sitting on it like a dragon this whole time. She bites the inside of her cheek, to stop herself from saying something she’ll regret.

Her gaze shifts to Dara, who rolls her eyes and pulls a face, dragging a smile out of her.

“Do you play an instrument, Lady Sigrid?” An elderly Dwarrowdam asks, and she hesitates before she answers. She never had the time nor the money, she is almost tempted to tell her. But music – she has come to realise, means a great deal to Dwarves. There is a song and a tune for every occasion. Some songs are created in the moment, while others are as old as the kingdom itself.

“No, milady, I’m afraid I don’t.” She replies, her cheeks growing uncomfortably warm when someone tuts.

“But surely, you must play _something._ ” A younger, red-haired Dwarrowdam insists.

“The Princess sings very well.” Dara interjects, and she is tempted to scowl at her for her betrayal.

Dáin’s wife smiles. “Is that so? Oh, you must sing for us one day, my dear.”

“Oh – oh, no. I don’t – I couldn’t –” She stammers hopelessly, drawing more unwanted attention to herself. The room is too small for so many people, she feels trapped, and she is so relieved when Dís stands and clears her throat, she thinks she could kiss her. The Princes’ mother is similar to her brother, there is something very regal in her manner, something which commands attention and respect.

“I believe it is almost noon.” She announces.

“Ah, shall we adjourn for lunch?” The elderly Dwarrowdam asks, and the others all hum in agreement.

“Come, we shall dine in the King’s hall.” Dís leads the way out of the room, waving her hands as if mustering sheep. Dwarves are always remarkably on time when it comes to their meals. As they file out of the room, she hangs back and catches Dara’s arm as she tries to leave.

“Why did you tell them I could sing?” She whispers as Dara winds her arm through hers.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I said that because you can.” The Dwarf replies as she tows her forcibly from the room. “And – well – because it would seem… odd to them, if you admitted you couldn’t play anything. I thought it best to intervene. Now, that’s quite enough scowling.”

She scowls even more at that, and Dara jabs her in the ribs with her elbow.

“I have more important things to be doing than _lunch_ ,” she whispers. “Tell them I’ve been called away on urgent business, or that I’m ill, or… or I’ve accidentally fallen down a mine. Please don’t make me spend a moment longer with them.”

“Remember your manners, Sigrid.”

“ _Manners.”_ She huffs. “I can't be doing with this –”

Dara’s eyes narrow and she pulls her aside, making sure that no one might overhear them.

“If it’s getting you this worked up, _fine_ , you may go.” She relents. “But on one condition – wherever you’re going, bring Prince Fíli with you, and thank him for his gift. That is, if you wish to accept the gift. If not, thank him anyway, but ask that he do better next time.”

“Next time?” She repeats to herself, annoyed. “Why must there be a next time!”

Dara drags her hand down her face. “Go,” she sighs. “I’ll tell the others you aren’t feeling well.”

She grins briefly, gratefully, and hurries away before Dara can change her mind. She has no intention of finding her Dwarf husband, but she stumbles upon him anyway, as she should have expected. As she descends the stairs to the entrance hall, the gates within her sights, Fíli and Kíli appear almost out of nowhere. For a moment, she thinks they haven’t seen her, and tries to slip away without being noticed.

“Sigrid!” Kíli calls after her. “Look Fíli, it’s Sigrid!”

The gates are so close – she’s almost tempted to make a run for it. She’s taller than both Fíli and Kíli, her legs are longer, and so there is a good chance she’ll be faster than them. It’s tempting, but she fears Dara’s ire too much to chance it. Instead, she forces herself to stop and turns to face to two Dwarves, smiling as politely as she can. Kíli beams at her, practically skipping to her side, while his brother is more hesitant.

“Where’re you off to?” Kíli inquires.

“Dale.” She replies, and her eyes narrow suspiciously when he grins. “Why do you ask?”

“Can we come with you? I promise we won’t get in the way!” Kíli pleads, using those big brown eyes of his to his advantage.

“Oh, alright.” She sighs, though finds herself smiling slightly when Kíli slings his arm around her waist.

“You’ll never guess who is coming back to the Lonely Mountain,” he leans in close to whisper.

“Tauriel?” She whispers back. “But – I thought she was still clearing out that old fortress with King Thranduil’s guard?”

“Aye, she was. And now that it’s clear, she’s coming back.”

She smiles to herself, the news lifting her spirits. She is fond of Tauriel, the Elf who saved her and her siblings’ lives over and over again. The Elf had stayed with them after the dragon’s death, and after the Dwarves had left them on the beach, until they were reunited with Bain and their father. She’d held onto her hand and wrapped one arm around Tilda, refusing to let them give in and despair. She owes her a great deal, a debt she doubts she will ever be able to pay back.

When Kíli’s arm slips away from her waist, she glances over her shoulder. Fíli is watching her curiously, brows slightly furrowed. The locket suddenly feels heavy in her pocket. She looks away quickly, scowling at how warm her cheeks had grown.

“Actually –” Kíli says as he glances between the two of them with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I just remembered that I promised to visit Bofur, he wanted to give me a tour of the mine they opened this morning. Give my best to your father, and Bain and Tilda, will you?”

He’s gone before either of them have a chance to respond, dashing off with a cheeky grin. The silence with quickly falls between them is awkward and stifling. She fidgets, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. Fíli clears his throat awkwardly before he extends his arm. She hesitates before she reluctantly loops her arm through his, avoiding his gaze. He places his free hand over hers, his wedding band cool against the back of her palm.

It’s a pleasant walk from Erebor to Dale, on most days. Daises and cornflowers have started to grow amongst the grass, making it easier to forget all the lives which were lost before the walls of the Lonely Mountain. The scorched marks on the earth, where they had burned the bodies of thousands of Orcs and Goblins and beasts, are hidden from sight by wildflowers.

It’s difficult for her to imagine a battle ever having taken place here.

“Lovely weather we're having.” She comments, feeling the need to say something.

Fíli blinks at her, brows furrowing in confused. “What?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” She sighs, and they fall back into silence.

There was once a forest here, between Erebor and Dale. Filled with wildflowers and life. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine it. She wants to ask him how long Dwarves live for, so that she might know if he will get to see this place returned to its splendour. She doubts that she will. She’ll be long gone before trees take root in this place again.

“You ought to get a horse,” Fíli conversationally says. “I could purchase one for you –”

“Oh, no – thank you, but that’s not necessary. I enjoy the walk.”

Fíli frowns and comes to a stop. He grasps her hand, taking it from his arm so that he can hold it. His hand is very warm, and his calloused fingers gently wrap around hers. She stares down at his hand, his thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles, and finds herself lost for words. She never knows quite what to say when he touches her like this.

“I understand that it makes you uncomfortable, having things bought for you.” He tells her sincerely. “But you are my wife. So please, know that I fully intend to give you and your family everything you deserve. You don’t have to want for anything, not anymore.”

“I don’t need your charity –”

“It’s not charity!” Fíli exclaims, perhaps a little too loudly. Suddenly, it feels like every man, woman, and Dwarf walking the road between Dale and Erebor is looking at them, watching them curiously and whispering amongst themselves. “You’re not a poor bargeman’s daughter anymore.” Fíli continues more softly. “You’re my wife. And Princess of Erebor. You need to accept that things have changed, Sigrid.”

She pulls her hand from his grasp with a little more force than intended. Her eyes flicker to his face, and she frowns at the sight of hurt briefly flashing across his features. She never intended to insult him, or wound his pride, and while a part of her wants to storm off, and not speak to him again until she’s forced, she doesn’t. Instead, she sighs and takes the necklace from her pocket. She presses it into Fíli’s palm.

“You’re right. It does make me uncomfortable. Look – I know you don’t know me very well, but you need to understand - I’m not a Dwarf, I’m not like you!” She exclaims, and though she regrets it the moment she says it, she can’t help but continue. It needs to be said. He needs to know. “I can’t be around my people covered in gold and jewels when they’re struggling and living in rubble! There are far better things to be spending your coin on than little trinkets – no matter how pretty they are.”

Fíli stares up at her in disbelief. “You think I _bought_ this for you?”

He bows his head, sighing wearily. “I don’t claim to have great skill with this sort of crafting – I’m a smith, not a jeweller – but I like to think I’m better than the sort of person to pick something out at a stall as a cheap afterthought.”

“I don’t understand.” She murmurs, confused.

“No, I suppose you don’t. As you said, you’re not a Dwarf…”

She doesn’t know what to say. Ever since the moment she first stepped into the mountain, she has felt like an outsider – to everyone, but him. Dara, though she tries, only makes her more conscious of how different she is from her husband and his kin. But Fíli… he has never treated her any different, or stared, or made her aware of their differences.

“Forgive me,” Fíli eventually sighs. “I spoke out of turn. If… if you don’t mind, I should go back. Someone needs to keep Kíli out of trouble.”

His lips do not linger on the back of her hand when he presses a kiss to her knuckles. He departs with a polite nod of his head. She watches him go, flexing the hand he’d held unconsciously. He doesn’t look back at her, and she turns away, unsure what to think.

“Dwarves.” She huffs, but her heart isn’t in it.

She senses that she’s the one at fault, and if not for her pride and damned stubbornness, she might have gone after him to apologise. But she doesn’t. Instead, she continues along the road alone and does her best not to think about it.

 

* * *

 

 

She can’t sleep. Her swirling thoughts keep returning to Fíli and the words they’d exchanged.

She desperately wants to be angry with him for getting so worked up over nothing – but it isn’t nothing, not to him. She realises that now. She glances at the clock and then at the closed wooden door, wondering if it’s not too late to apologise.

There is a knock at the door. The sudden sound, disturbing the silence, startles her.

It comes too late in the evening to mean anything good. She once mocked her father for his suspicion, but now she thinks she might understand it. She eyes the door warily for a moment, tempted to reach for the poker leaning against the side of the hearth. But the moment passes quickly, when she forces herself to remember that this is her home now. No one will hurt her here.

She sets down her book and takes her time, answering the door with great reluctance.

It comes as a surprise, however, to see the back of the King’s head, recognisable only by the crown sat on top of it, as he flees down the corridor. It would be easy to shut the door and pretend she’d never see him – but something easily done is so often the wrong thing to do. She hates her father for a moment, for all his moral preaching.

“Your Majesty?” She calls after the Dwarf, and when he continues to walk away, she calls out to him again. This time, he pauses. When he looks over his shoulder at her, she fidgets uncomfortably. “Did you – did you wish to speak to me?”

The Dwarf King remains silent, but walks back to the door with a curt nod. He passes through the doorway and she leaves the door ajar, eyes following him as he stalks through the sitting room to stand in front of the hearth, hands clasped behind his back. She comes to stand behind one of the armchairs, her fingers curling around the back of the chair. She waits, unwilling to be the first one to speak.

“I wish to apologise, I spoke out of turn the other day. It was… it was not my intent.” He says, briefly glancing back at her. There is a stiffness to his words, an insincerity, as if they were told to him by another. It reminds her of Bain – when she forced him to apologise, whenever he quarrelled with other children. The stubborn set of his jaw, the downcast eyes, the mumbled apology… Her brother, she can forgive. He is a boy, not a King. And yet, she remembers how sorry she had felt for him and she can’t hold onto whatever anger she might have had.

She has never been very good at keeping grudges.

“It’s fine. I understand, you were upset.” She answers eventually. “Is that all, Your Majesty?” 

“Aye, that was all.” He mutters and he runs a weary hand down his face, a deep furrow forming between his dark brows.

“I… I don’t know how it is with Dwarves,” she finds herself saying. “But when my people marry, we become a family. And we do what we must, for our family.” She fidgets, uncomfortable under his gaze, and picks at a loose piece of thread on the back of the armchair. “When I married Fíli, that made you my uncle – so I will help you, if I can. If ever you need someone to speak to, or… or someone to listen –”

She pretends not to notice the somewhat doubtful quirk of his brow.

“And what would you have me do, daughter of Bard – pour my heart out over a cup of tea? What a rousing tale that would make, for the poor people of Lake-town, to hear the Dwarf they despise brought so low –” She ought to be angry, and at the very least, offended. But instead, as she feels only frustration as she watches the Dwarf pace the width of the room, his golden crown catching the firelight. _I will help you, damn you,_ she thinks, _whether you like it or not_. She grits her teeth, cursing her own stubbornness.

“Yes, I suppose we ought to despise you. You, who brought dragon fire and war upon us. But we do not.” She says, and the King’s pacing halts for a moment. She ignores his mistrustful look and continues, her gaze flickering to the fire. “I don’t know – or care, for that matter – what you think of me, but do not mistake my offer with some… some cruel intent to mock you. You have helped my people, given us gold so that we might rebuild our lives. We no longer live in the shadow of the dragon, we are free of it. You seem to be a good king; you are loved by your Company and –”

“Enough.” He sighs. “Please.”

He falls heavily onto one of the chairs, his crown slipping from his head to his lap. He hangs his head, sitting in silence.

“I believe I am beginning to understand now, why my nephew speaks so highly of you.” He eventually says, his eyes fixed upon his crown. _Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,_ she thinks to herself. “I am sorry, for my ill-temper. It has been… a long day, and your words are kinder than I deserve…”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” She asks when the silence grows uncomfortable. “Don’t worry, you needn’t worry about pouring your heart out.”

He blinks at her, looking somewhat bewildered, before his lips twitch into a small, wavering smile.

“Thank you, but no. It’s late, and you and I both have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

She hums in agreement. He’s not wrong there. The mountain has been alive with activity for days, everyone rushed off their feet trying to get everything ready. The Elven King and a host of Elves from Mirkwood arrive tomorrow, for the month of festivities and tournaments, celebrating Durin’s Day, the first anniversary of King Thorin’s coronation, and the death of the dragon. There will be tourneys and feasts, where all are welcome and allowed to compete. Bombur and his army of cooks have had their hands full, from what she has heard, preparing the copious amounts of food.

When the King stands, she blinks.

“Goodnight, Your Majesty.” She says as she walks him to the door.

He inclines his head. “Goodnight.”

She closes the door behind him and leans against it for a moment, her fingers fiddling with her ring. First she takes tea with a Princess and nobles, then she argues with a Prince, and offers a shoulder to cry on to a King. Her life has become strange.

“Very strange, indeed.” She murmurs to herself, shaking her head in disbelief.

She’s tired, and the hour is late, but something still nags at her – something which pulls her gaze to the wooden door. She can’t let whatever happened lie between them, festering. He isn’t just a Prince, she has to remember. He is also her husband. And she has to make their marriage work somehow, if she wants her life in Erebor to be bearable. She approaches the door cautiously, remembering the last time she’d ventured through that doorway. But the King is gone, the rooms belong to his nephew now – he said so himself.

“Fíli?” She calls, rapping her knuckles against the door.

“Are you there?” She knocks again, and when no answer comes, she sighs. Her hand lowers, and her fingers loosely wrap around the door handle. There is no harm in it, she decides. If he isn’t there, he isn’t there. And if he is…

She finds herself walking through the doorway before she can answer that train of thought.

The sitting room is empty, the fire in the hearth only weakly flickering. The room has changed, since the last time she was here. The harp in the corner of the room is gone, and the paintings have been taken down from the walls. There is a pile of weapons – swords, axes, daggers – on one of the armchairs, and an abandoned book, left open on the table. She leans down, the tips of her fingers brushing across the words. The words are written in Khuzdul, and though she doesn’t understand, she traces the shapes of the letters, pretending that she does.

Her gaze flits around the room, taking a moment to examine it curiously. There’s a fiddle leaning against one of the chairs, its bow left discarded on the floor. She picks it up, handling it carefully, and sets it down on the desk pushed into the corner of the room. A curved archway leads to what looks like a personal armoury, and double doors, made from dark, carved wood, open to what must be his chambers. She hesitates before she reaches for the handle of the door.

If she were braver, she might have knocked.

Instead, she turns the handle and gently pushes one of the doors open. The room is dark, the curtains drawn and the fire barely burning. She doesn’t see him at first, only the shape of something beneath a pile of blankets. As she creeps closer, eyes adjusting to the darkness, she makes out the colour of his hair, sprawled across the pillow, and the clothes he’d been wearing that day, left strewn across the floor.

It’s so quiet; the only sound she can hear is the faint crackle of the dying fire and the beating of her own heart, hammering wildly in her chest. When he stirs in his sleep, shifting to lie on his back, she backs away a step. It’s wrong of her to be here, she’s intruding on something she shouldn’t. She tiptoes out of the room and closes the door behind her, wincing when it creaks.

She hurries into her bedroom, feeling both strangely determined and unsure. She pulls at the strings of her corset, shedding her dress, and crawls into bed. _It could be worse,_ she’d thought when she was told she was going to marry him. But it can also be _better._

They both deserve more than this, so she will try harder – for both their sakes.

 

* * *

 

She dreams of fire and water.

The water is peaceful, the water is home. And the fire burns low, barely more than an ember, like a firefly in the night sky.

But then she hears the crack. The sound she will never forget; the crack of age old stone, and the hush before the storm. It isn’t long before the bells begin to ring and the night air is filled with screams. And then she sees it. The dragon. It is nothing more than a shadow, monstrous and terrible, flying overhead. She feels the wind from its wings against her face and she grips onto Tilda, her sister pressing her cheek to her shoulder with a frightened whimper.

Someone screams, and then a wall of flames descends upon them.

She looks back and sees the boats behind them on fire. People are screaming, running, the flames burying them alive. She pulls Tilda against her, shielding her eyes. She won’t let her see. She reaches for Bain and her brother’s hand quickly finds hers.

“Look out!” Someone yells and Tilda screams as the Master’s boat crashes into theirs. She looks up, her eyes meeting Alfrid’s. For a moment, she almost thinks he might help them. But then the Master’s men shove at their boat with their paddles, forcing them back. Their boat, built for over a dozen men, carries only gold and jewels. The Master is supposed to lead them, _protect them_ , and instead he is leaving them to die.

She can feel the heat of the dragon fire on her face, the smoking burning her throat. And through the fire and smoke, with his longbow held aloft, she see her father standing atop the clock tower. She screams his name as the dragon flies past him, setting all below him to flame.

She doesn’t notice Bain move, not until it’s too late, not until he grabs an overhanging hook and swings off of the boat. She reaches for him, the tips of her fingers grabbing hold on his coat for the briefest second before he swings out of her reach and leaps onto the burning dock. She screams his name as she tries to go after him, lunging forwards, her hands falling into the water. She feels strong arms around her waist, pulling her back from the edge, dragging her back into the boat.

“Leave him!” Tauriel yells. “We cannot go back.”

When Tilda sobs their brother’s name, she feels the arms around her middle loosen. She looks back and sees that it was Fíli who had stopped her.  _You should have let me go,_ she wants to tell him. She wraps her arms around Tilda, and they watch their brother run to his death.

And then the dream changes.

_“I say we stand with our men in life and in death!”_

She wakes with a start.

She sits up with heavy sheets tangled around her legs, and her nightgown damp with sweat. She wipes her brow with the sleeve of her nightgown and shudders. The dreams have been getting worse, the closer they get to Durin’s Day.

Sigrid pushes back the blankets with a sigh. It seems impossible that it’s been almost two years; sometimes she can still feel the heat of dragon fire on her face, and still hears the echoes of screams in her ears, like she’s still there, as if she never left.

She thought it would be easier, living in the mountain, shielded from the constant reminders. She’d thought the Dwarves, who seem so content in their reclaimed homeland, to be free from the scars of war. But they carry them too, she just didn’t notice it at first. They hide their pain better than her people do. And yet, there is a reason they carry weapons wherever they go, something she realised the day someone woke a sleeping Dwalin and almost lost their hand. There is a restlessness to so many of them, a fear that the good will not last. It’s a feeling she knows well, a dark thought that lurks in the back of her mind.

Fearful of her dreams, Sigrid clambers out of bed and pushes back the curtains. It’s still dark, not quite dawn yet. Hours before Dara will wake her for her morning lessons. She carts her fingers through her hair, pinning it into a loose bun at the back of her head. Fíli’s braid hangs loose by the side of her face; her fingers brush against the gold bead as she tucks the strand of hair behind her ear. She dresses quickly, without realising where she intends to go, until she catches sight of her old cloak. The battered blue cloak sits atop the pile of her old clothes, a small bundle that is all she really has left of her home. She stares it for a moment, at the patches of mismatching material and crooked stitches.

She laces up her old boots and drags on her old coat, knowing what she needs to do.

The kingdom is quiet, peaceful, at this hour. She likes it. The dark ought to scare her, but there’s something comforting about it. There is no one watching her, judging her – for the first time in so long, she’s truly alone with her thoughts. Only guards, stuck on night duty, patrol the halls. They make so much noise in all their armour that it’s easy to avoid them, to slip through the mountain unnoticed. It is only at the main gate that someone notices her presence, a guard who catches sight of her from the ramparts as he yawns.

“You there! Who’s that sulkin’ around in the dark?” He shouts from above, drawing the attention of the other guards.

“Princess Sigrid,” an approaching guardsman calls. “Is everything alright?”

She blinks in surprise at the familiar face. The guardsman – Glaran, from the Blue Mountains – is often found guarding the Royal Wing of the mountain, and always winks and smiles at Dara when she passes – something which never fails to leave the Dwarf flustered and irritated, much to her amusement. She’s certain that deep down, she quite enjoys the attention – if the way Dara blushes is anything to go on. She supposes the guardsman – with his long beard and thick, muscular arms – is considered quite attractive. For a Dwarf.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replies. “I’d like to go to Dale, to watch the sunrise.”

It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s close enough.

“Let us escort you, Princess.” Glaran says. “At least until the city walls.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary –”

“Please,” he interjects. “I don’t like the idea of you being out there alone, not at this hour.”

“And the Prince’ll have our beards if he finds out we let you go without accompanying you.” The other guard calls, grinning broadly as he mimics his beard being cut off. She’s stubborn – she has always been stubborn, just like her Da – but Dwarves bring new meaning to the word. There is no point in arguing with them, not if their minds are made up about something.

“Alright,” she sighs, “but only to the city walls. I’d like to be alone.”

She waits, fingers drumming against her arm as the gate slowly opens. Once the gate is opened, Glaran strides ahead, while the other guard follows close behind her. The night is less peaceful, with the two of them with her. They both carry large battle-axes strapped on their backs and rest their hands on the pommel of their swords, ready to draw at any moment. It makes her feel nervous, rather than protected.

“Tree-shaggers arrive today,” the guard says and Glaran looks back at him with a scowl. “Beggin’ your pardon. What I meant to say, is that Pointy Ears and his friends are arriving today. From what I’ve heard, they’ve been makin’ a lot of fuss for old King Thorin, demandin’ special accommodation during the festivities. Damn Elves. You’ve think they’d be happy with anything, considering they live in trees.”

The air is unseasonably cool and it’s still dark, the first light of dawn only just creeping across the sky. She wraps her arms around herself, tuning out the guardsman’s babble. Her thoughts keep going back to her dream, making it difficult to focus on anything else. She’s only faintly aware of the promise she’d made before falling asleep, to try harder and make the best of her new life in Erebor. It seems impossible, when she’s so certain she’s going to wake up and discover it’s all been a dream  - that she’s still trapped in that awful day.

“…it got me thinkin’, thought I might enter myself in the knife throwing contest. There’s no point in hand-to-hand when it’s against old Dwalin, or sparring when it’s against his Majesty. How about you, milady? You fancy entering any of the tournaments?” She doesn’t realise he’s speaking to her at first, until the Dwarf lightly nudges her with his elbow.

“I hadn’t thought about it.” She answers, distracted.

“No?” The Dwarf looks surprised. “That’s a shame. There’s a lot of gold to be won.”

“I don’t care about gold,” she mutters, too low for him to hear.

“And that Prince of yours – is he going to compete?”

She frowns. “I’m not sure…”

She finds herself looking back at the mountain, her brows drawing together. She’d never even thought to ask him. She looks away, tugging her coat tighter around herself. Her breath hangs in the air in front of her, the cold making her shiver. The guards walk with her until they reach the outer walls, just as they’d promised, though Glaran hesitates before he walks away.

“Are you sure you don’t want some company, Princess?” He asks her, and she shakes her head.

“I’ll be alright. Thank you, Glaran.”

He smiles. “Give my best to Dara, will you?”

“I will,” she promises.

She walks across the bridge alone, walking through the stone archway into the city. The empty streets are not a comfort to her, as the quiet mountain had been. Instead, they remind her of the battle. Once the screams had stopped and the battle had gone quiet, when her father had burst through the doors of the Great Hall and told them it was over. _We’re leaving,_ he’d said as they hurried out of the hall, _there’s nothing for us here._ The streets had been quiet then, but they hadn’t been empty…

_People trusted you, they listened to you. The Master's mantle was there for the taking and you threw it all away. For what?_

She keeps walking, unsure where she’s going until she reaches the city’s southern gate. From there, she can see the overlook and the hills and the Long Lake. The sun is coming up, she can see the first few rays of light reflecting on the surface of the water. The fishermen will be going out soon, rowing their little boats out to the middle of the lake, whistling the tunes she has spent her whole life listening to. A small voice in her head tells her to go back, to stay away from a place that’ll cause her nothing but grief, but she keeps going and follows her feet.

By the time she has descended the slope from the Dale and crossed the hills to the waters edge, the sun has risen from its sleep. It fills the morning sky with colour, the grey of dawn bleeding into streaks of pink and red. The wind whips through her hair, blowing it around her face, once she reaches the shore of the lake. She stands there for a long time, gaze fixed on the charred wreck that was once her home.

Lake-town is nothing more than a ruin now, and her home is just a memory. It takes seeing it to make her finally realise. She stares at the ruins until her vision blurs and her throat grows thick with the promise of tears. She sinks slowly to her knees and sits on the stony shore. There’s no going back, no matter how much she both fears and wishes it.

She doesn’t have to close her eyes to picture it. She can see the narrow canals, the busy marketplace, the wind lance, squabbling fishermen in their boats, children running along the docks… She remembers everything. Every little detail, she holds onto the memories. They’re all she has left. The sound of the water, the smell of fish in the air, the creak and groan of the floorboards…

But little pieces of Dale and Erebor seep into her thoughts.

Suddenly, she sees her garden, the flowering vines of sweet-smelling blossoms that spread throughout the city, the view of the valley from her balcony, and the dining hall, where she is surrounded by voices and laughter – where she is safe, and where she never has to worry if her father is going without food just so that she and her siblings might eat…

Neither Dale nor Erebor is her home, but maybe one day they could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh, i'm sorry this chapter took so long. i've got exams coming up next week so i've been stressing and procrastinating like crazy. but this chapter is longer than the others, so hopefully that makes up for it a little?
> 
> thanks for reading <3


	7. Chapter 7

Her father truly has an odd knack for bringing home the strangest company.

First, he smuggles thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit through their toilet (which may, or may not, bring luck. The matter is still up for debate) and then he invites an Elven King for tea. It isn’t what she expected to find in her kitchen, after finally dragging herself away from the lake and returning to Dale, but by now, she really shouldn’t have been surprised. And at least the Elven King isn’t threatening to rip anyone’s arms off.

“And which one are you?” The Elven King asks when she steps into the room.

He looks out of place in their kitchen, with a long sweeping cape and a crown upon his head. The first time she laid eyes on him, the Elven King had ridden into Dale on the back of an elk, dressed for war. And yet he’d helped them, given them food when they were starving. She wouldn’t easily forget that.

She curtseys clumsily. “Sigrid, Your Highness.”

“Oh yes, the one married to the Dwarf.” He says and sips his tea. “You poor thing.”

She smiles politely, even though the comment grates at her slightly. She isn’t sure why, and doesn’t particularly want to know, either. There’s a moment of silence between them, awkward and uncomfortable, and when she hears the familiar sound of her father’s boots on the wooden floorboards, she nearly sighs in relief. She turns away from the Elven King and smiles when she catches sight of her father.

“I thought I heard your voice,” her father grins.

Forgetting her manners and the Elven King, she hurries to her father’s side. She meets him half-way as he strides across the room and he pulls her in close, hugging her tightly. She clings onto him for a moment, needing the reassurance that he’s actually there, and that he’s not going anywhere, and he presses a kiss to her temple as he draws away. He seems to see something on her face that worries him, as his dark brows draw together in concern. When he looks at her questioningly, she shakes her head and smiles faintly.

“Everything’s fine.” She whispers, though the crease between his brows lingers.

Remembering the Elven King’s presence, she glances over her shoulder at him and then back at her father, raising her eyebrows expectantly. Her father follows her gaze and just shrugs, smiling faintly. He places his hands on her shoulders, turns her around, and steers her back into the kitchen. He takes a seat opposite the Elven King and pours them both a cup of tea.

“I didn’t expect to see you so early, King Thranduil.” She says when her father offers no explanation, sitting beside him.

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. I did not wish to deal with Dwarves so early in the day. I thought it would best to pay Dale a visit first, before venturing into the mountain.” Thranduil answers and reaches for the teapot, pouring himself some more tea.

With a jolt, she remembers Dara and their morning lesson.

“I have to be getting back now,” she says as she gets to her feet. Both her father and the Elven King stand as well. “I look forward to seeing you again soon, my lord.” She tells Thranduil before she stretches up to kiss her father’s cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

She hurries off before either of them can say anything, too fearful of upsetting Dara to linger.

In comparison to earlier that day, Dale is full of life, and bustling with activity. The markets are open, and she spots dozens of Elves in gleaming armour milling around the city, looking bored as they wait for their king. They nod politely at her nonetheless. There are mostly Dwarves and traders walking the road between Dale and Erebor, as well as large carriages transporting goods from the Woodland Realm. And though she doubts Thorin and Thranduil will ever get along, the festivities will be good for them and their people.

She takes a moment, forgetting Dara and her ire, to look around her, and marvel at the change in the land.

Gone are the days of desolation, the lands free from the dragon’s poison. The ice atop the mountain has thawed, the rivers flowing freely again. She closes her eyes, trying to imagine what this place might look like in a hundred years. The trees will have regrown, and where she stands may one day be a forest filled with life. No one will ever look at that place and remember a battle, or a time where there was only fire and death. She opens her eyes, smiling to herself, glad that there will be many within the mountain who will live to see such days.

She passes through the gate, sparring a moment to smile and say a proper good morning to Glaran and the other guards. It is by some miracle that she makes it to her rooms without running into Fíli or any of the others. She steps through the doorway, quietly closing the door behind her, and winces when she spots Dara stood by the hearth, her expression thunderous.

“Where in Durin’s name have you been, child?” The Dwarf cries. “I’ve been worried sick!”

She steps forward hesitantly, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I never meant to worry you.”

“Were you with Prince Fíli?” She inquires, catching her off-guard.

“No! Goodness, no. I couldn’t sleep, so I went to Dale to watch the sunrise.”

Dara’s eyes narrow as she takes in her appearance, appraising her red cheeks and windswept hair, as well as her muddy boots and weathered old coat. With a small, weary sigh, the Dwarf strides towards her, and places her hands on her shoulders.

“What am I going to do with you, eh? You look more like a farmer’s daughter than a princess.” She scolds, though there is something fond in the way that she looks at her, something which makes Sigrid smile slightly. “But never mind that, let’s get you cleaned up. I’m not sure the Elves will be too happy if you greet them looking like you’ve been rolling around in the mud.”

She doesn’t have the heart to tell her about her run-in with the Elven King. Instead, she just rolls her eyes and allows Dara to drag her into the bathroom, sitting obediently while she prepares the bath. She unlaces her boots and undresses, leaving her clothes in a heap on the stone floor. She climbs into the warm water with a contented sigh, not missing the days where the closest she got to a bath was a bucket of freezing water from the Long Lake. Dara hands her a bar of soap and she washes herself while the Dwarf drags a comb through her knotted hair.

“Dara…” she begins slowly. “Is there a difference between gifts that are bought and gifts that are made?”

Dara’s hands pause for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Well… I was wondering if there was any significance to gifts that are made by hand, as opposed to ones that are bought from a stall and made by someone else.” She says and Dara’s hands continue to gently drag a comb through her hair.

“There is no shame in purchasing a gift for a Dwarf, if that is what you’re asking. But yes, I suppose there is a difference. Gifts are given to family or close friends, but most often they’re for the purpose of courtship.” Dara tells her as she scrubs soap into her hair. “Courting gifts are usually made by hand, used to show skill and devotion. You never had to endure this, as yours was a brief courtship – but typically, courting only begins after a Dwarf has received permission from their intended’s family and gifts have been exchanged and accepted.”

“That seems… complicated.”

Dara laughs. “What about your people? How would you go about it?”

“Courting?” She frowns, she’d never thought about it. “I’m not sure. I suppose we give each other flowers or food to show romantic intentions. I don’t really know, my parents never gave me a list of rules I had to follow. They trusted me to know my own heart.”

She smiles to herself. “My Da says that he loved my mother from the moment he saw her, but her parents thought she was too good for a lowly bargeman. But they married anyway; they were in love, they didn’t need anyone’s permission.”

“And you?” Dara inquires before she ducks her head under the water, washing the soap from her hair.

“What about me?” She asks when she resurfaces.

“You’re a pretty girl, I’m sure you had dozens of boys vying for your hand.”

“If they were, I think most were too afraid of my Da to come anywhere near me.” She says, smiling faintly. Even if interest had been expressed, she’d never had much time for romance; she had Bain and Tilda to think about, and they came before anyone else.  “There was one boy… who I liked more than the others, but we were only ever friends.”

A few stolen kisses isn’t love, she knows that now.

“I saw Glaran today.” She says, changing the subject as she climbs out of the bath. She wraps a towel around herself and laughs at Dara’s scowl. “He was very gallant; he wouldn’t let me go to Dale unless he escorted me. I don’t see why you won’t give him the time of day.”

“I can say the same to you, you know.” Dara tuts.

When she doesn’t answer, Dara gives her a strange look, but doesn’t press the matter any further. Instead, the Dwarf just tuts again and hands her a bundle of clothes. While she pulls on the thin shift and stockings she has grown used to, she grimaces at all the different dresses Dara has laid out on the bed. The dressmakers have been busy, rushed off their feet trying to complete Dara’s order before the Elves arrive. She has all new dresses for the festivities, a different one for each day and every feast. She misses her old clothes, as weathered and full of poorly patched up holes as they were. But she dresses without complaint, knowing arguing will get her nowhere. And yet…

“I want to wear my boots. The shoes you gave me hurt my feet.” She tells Dara once the Dwarf has help her finish dressing. “ _Please._ No one will notice. _”_ She adds, shifting uncomfortably in her new dress. She can’t help but argue just a little.

“Alright,” Dara sighs. “But only if you clean the mud off of them. Do that while I try to make your hair look presentable.”

She nods eagerly, retrieving her boots from the bathroom before the Dwarf can change her mind. Her boots have seen better days, the leather is worn, but sturdy nonetheless. While she scrubs the mud off of the boots, Dara works on her damp hair, muttering complaints under her breath. From the few lessons she has had in Khuzdul, she knows enough to pick up a few words. She smiles to herself, amused.

“What is expected of me today?” She wonders aloud, glancing up at Dara.

The Dwarf thinks on the question for a moment before answering. “You will be expected to stand by your Prince on the battlements for the arrival of King Thranduil. After that, I imagine the King will show the Elves around the mountain. You won’t be expected to join them.”

“So I have the afternoon to do as I please?”

“Yes,” Dara huffs. “I suppose so. Until the feast, at least.”

She hums happily and continues scrubbing her boots. When she closes her eyes, she can picture the lake so clearly; she sees the way the morning light reflected off of the water, and the hollow feeling in her chest, filled with pain and longing, seems to lessen for the first time in weeks. She doesn’t mourn its absence; she feels lighter, more at ease.

“You seem to be in a good mood,” Dara comments.

“What gave me away?” She teases, opening her eyes to look up at the Dwarf.

Dara clicks her tongue, but smiles fondly. She pulls her boots on, and smiles to herself as she laces them up.

When Dara finishes making her hair look presentable, she glances at her reflection and sighs in relief. The Dwarf, seemingly tired of listening to her complain about how uncomfortable her overly complicated Dwarven hair styles were, opted instead to simply braid her hair to one side. The gold of Fíli’s bead catches in the light and she quickly looks away.

They eat breakfast together, as they always do, and when there is a knock at the door, Dara leaps from her chair like a startled bird. The Dwarf hurries to answer the door, waving for her to follow. With a sigh, she sets her half-eaten piece of toast down on her plate and gets to her feet. When Dara opens the door, she is surprised to see that it isn’t Fíli stood waiting, but Dwalin.

She eyes the gruff looking Dwarf cautiously before she steps out of the room.

“Good morning, Mister Dwalin.” She says, smiling politely.

“Aye, it’s good enough.” The Dwarf mutters in response, scowling.

“And how are you? Well, I hope?” She asks, feeling the need to say something when the silence grows uncomfortable.

“Enough chit-chat.” He grumbles. “Let’s get a move on.” 

His manners leave something to be desired, but she isn’t going to argue with him. She follows him when he turns and wordlessly marches down the hall, dragging Dara along with her. She hasn’t had much occasion to talk to the Captain of the Guard – not that she has wanted to, either. She hasn’t forgotten the arm-ripping comment.

She has to smile when they descend the stairs into the long entrance hall; the King spared no expense in the hope of boasting the prowess of his kingdom, and to rub it in the faces of the Elves. But the long months of hard work have paid off, the great halls are filled with the golden light she has come to love. The Dwarves they pass bow their heads respectfully, shrinking under Dwalin’s withering gaze.

She spots Fíli waiting on the battlements alone, looking bored as he leans against the ramparts. 

For once, the Prince isn’t wearing armour; he looks handsome, in a deep blue tunic with shiny gold buttons and a long grey cloak. When he catches sight of them walking up the steps, he bows his head formally, his manner more serious than she has come to expect. A small part of her supposes she knows the reason for it, remembering their less than pleasant exchange outside the walls of the mountain.

“Good morning.” She says, overly brightly. She makes an effort to smile, to seem happy to see him. _Have I really been so transparent?_ She wonders when Dara looks at her oddly, eyes narrowing at her in suspicion.

“Yes,” Fíli replies, clearing his throat. “It is.”

“I think it may rain, though.” Dara adds, unhelpfully.

When the two nod solemnly and glance up at the cloudless sky, she frowns. _Dwarves,_ she inwardly sighs.

They are saved from the awkward moment by the arrival of King Thorin, followed closely by Kíli and the rest of the Company. Kíli skips to his brother’s side, grinning from ear to ear. She doesn’t have to ask, she knows that look can mean only one thing – Tauriel. She finds herself looking ahead, at the approaching party of Elves with newfound excitement.

When trumpets begin to blast, Dara gives her a little shove so that she stands in line at the ramparts. There’s an odd sort order to everything Dwarves do, something she hadn’t quite grasped at first. The King stands in the middle, at the heart, with his heirs to his right, and his sister, Dáin, and Balin to his left. The closer a person is to the King, the more important they are.

Fíli takes his place on her left, with his brother animatedly whispering in his ear, while Dwalin stands on the other side of her, scowling at the Elves with two massive axes strapped to his back. She glances down at the top of his bald, tattooed head, wondering how she can be so intimidated by someone who only just reaches her shoulder.

Hearing the large gate beneath them slowly open, she turns her attention back to the Elves.

She spots King Thranduil almost immediately. Looking like something out of Tilda’s fairy stories, the Elven King rides his elk at the head of the party, with his long hair shining like polished silver in the light. His son rides at his side on a white horse, looking disinterested, and further down the procession, she spots a familiar flash of red hair.

Tauriel looks up, but she only has eyes for one.

They wait on the battlements for the Elves to reach the bridge that lies before the walls of Erebor, where they come to a halt. She sneaks a glance at King Thorin as he steps up with obvious reluctance, leaning against the ramparts to call down to the Elves below.

“I, Thorin, son of Thrain, welcome you to Erebor. May these days see peace and civility amongst our people, in this time of celebration and reflection.” The King calls down and the Elven King inclines his head in a small show of acceptance.

“Aye, and may we celebrate our reflection together.” Balin adds.

“I don’t think Thranduil needs to be told to celebrate his reflection.” She murmurs, leaning a little into Fíli’s side so that she won’t be overheard. His face doesn’t give anything away, save the slight twitch of his lips.

Her gaze flickers back to the two kings as they exchange formalities through gritted teeth and forced smiles. In truth, the ceremony doesn’t take long, but it feels like an age to her. When at last the Elves are welcomed into the mountain, she sighs in relief and leans against the ramparts as she turns her attention to Dale. There is so much work to be done, in preparation for the festivities; while most of the events will be held within the mountain and before the gates, there is one day in which Elves, Men and Dwarves will gather together in Dale, to mourn those they had lost there.

Today will be a good day – or at least, she will try her hardest to make it so.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be joining the Elves’ tour of the mountain?” Fíli asks, and she looks back at him with a smile. Kíli departs with a smirk, and her eyes follow him for a moment, watching as he hurries across the battlements and bounds down the stairs.

“Not if I can help it.” She says. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Where?” He fiddles with one of his tunic’s buttons, not quite meeting her eye.

“Dale,” she replies. “It’s nothing terribly exciting, but one of the caravans from the Blue Mountains brought a couple tins of paint and traded them with Hilda. She said she’d be willing to give them to me. I thought – if you weren’t doing anything terribly important –”

He lifts his head with furrowed brows. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way.”

“You wouldn’t be in the way. It’ll be handy, having someone to carry the heavy paint tins. Please, you’ll be doing me a favour – if you don’t come, I’ll have to ask someone else and I’d rather not spend the day with a stranger.” She says, with pretend seriousness. But when he looks away from her, his expression dismayed, she reaches out and gives one of his braids a playful tug. “I’m only teasing, of course I want you to join me. It’ll be nice, sharing some of the work we’re doing in Dale with you.”

 _It might actually give us something to talk about,_ she silently adds.

“Oh,” he says and she flushes faintly at the warm look he gives her. “In that case, I would be my pleasure to join you.”

It isn’t until later that she wonders where Dara disappeared to, or how the Dwarf managed to slip away without her noticing. Though, Dara is the furthest thing from her mind when Fíli offers her his arm and she feels the warmth of him next to her for the first time, without all that bothersome armour getting in the way. She wonders if all Dwarves are as warm, or if his blood just runs a little warmer than most. She smiles to herself as they descend the stairs – whatever it is, she doesn’t mind it. She doesn’t mind it at all.

The walk to Dale is pleasant, as it always tends to be, though the road is busy with Elves and Dwarves transporting goods into the mountain for the festivities. As they walk in a comfortable silence, she considers Fíli’s offer for the first time. A horse would certainly make it easier for her to get to Dale every day, and eliminate the need for guards not-so subtly following her wherever she goes.

“I’m sorry,” she says once they near the bridge leading into Dale, “for what I said. You were right.”

“You don’t need to apologise –”

“No, I should never have spoken to you like that, not after you gave me such a lovely gift. I let my temper to get the best of me, instead of just telling you the truth…” She pauses, and looks up at the ruins of Dale with a wistful sigh. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought, I do – I truly do, it’s just difficult for me to remember sometimes that things have changed…”

She squeezes his arm with a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll always miss my home, but I see that things are better now, in spite of all that’s happened. We no longer live in fear, in the shadow of the mountain. And we’re not living on the whims of the Master, struggling to scrape together enough scraps to survive. We’ve got a future – and in large part, that’s because of you, and your people.”

Fíli frowns, seemingly lost for words. “Sigrid, you –”

She spies a forget-me-not, a lone stem of little blue flowers growing by the roadside. How strange, to see them at this time of year. She releases Fíli’s arm for a moment, and carefully plucks one of the little blue flowers from its fragile stem.

“For you,” she tells him and places the flower in the palm of his hand.

“Thank you,” he says, though he sounds somewhat uncertain. He stares at the flower for a moment longer, before his fingers close around it. His eyes flicker up to meet hers and she smiles at the dubious and almost sheepish look on his face.

“Has no one ever given you a flower before?” She asks gently.

“Of course! Loads of times.” He scoffs and links his arm with hers again, pretending to look offended. When she raises her eyebrows doubtfully, he pulls a face. “Well, when I say loads of times, I mean –”

“Never?” She guesses, with a small smirk of amusement.

“Why? Is it a common occurrence for you?” He asks and though his eyes narrow suspiciously, a mischievous grin tugs at the corners of his lips. When they pass through the stone archway into Dale, he lightly runs his thumb over the ring on her left hand. “Pray tell, who has been giving you flowers? Should I be worried? Has my lady wife forsaken me so swiftly –”

She tries to scowl at him – she truly does, but she dissolves into laughter before she can stop herself.

“If you must know,” she laughs. “Most of my flowers come from Tilda.”

He cocks a brow. “Most?”

When she doesn’t answer, he holds his hand out in front of him and inspects the slightly crushed flower in his palm. “Bilbo always made a fuss about flowers,” he tells her. “I don’t understand. It’s not like you can eat it, and it’ll be dead in a day or two –”

“There’s lots of difference reasons,” she shrugs. “I don’t know how it is for Hobbits; I suppose flowers might mean a bit more to them. We mostly collect them because they’re pretty and they smell nice. But my mum, she always said those flowers – forget-me-nots – were lucky. I thought you could use the luck, if you’re going to be fighting Elves tomorrow.”

“Like a token?”

She smiles. “I suppose so.”

“Then I will wear it with pride,” he says and tucks the flower into the breast pocket of his tunic –

And if she blushes brighter than Hilda’s tin of red paint, well, that's no one's business but her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not entirely happy with about 70% of this chapter, but i had fun making the precious little cinnamon rolls flirt (i got a little carried away, so sue me).
> 
> i know it's been a while since i updated - sorry about that, by the way. i'm all done with exams and i should hopefully be getting my laptop fixed soon (i'm borrowing my friend's until then), so updates should be more regular now. thanks again for all the comments, bookmarks, kudos etc, it means the world to me <3 also, i have a cold at the moment (and it's 3am) so my proof reading leaves much to be desired. if you spot a mistake, or weird weirding, please let me know :) 
> 
> next up: the festivities! featuring oodles and oodles of grumpy dwarves, and maybe a broken bone or two.


	8. Chapter 8

They paint the doors a rusty shade of red, just like Tilda wanted.

It’s easy work, more enjoyable than she’d expected. It’s a pleasant change from her stuffy lessons with Dara, and the hard work which accompanies working in the garden and tending to the house. Most ask for their doors and shutters to be painted different shades of green, blue or sienna, leaving the streets a myriad of colours.  Something so simple – something so seemingly unimportant – changes everything, the splash of colour brings life back to this once desolate place.

“You work well, for a prince.” She teases as they meander leisurely through the city, their job done for the day.

When she hears Fíli snort, she glances at him and catches herself smiling, enjoying his company more than she’d expected. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and his hands and tunic are filthy, splattered with paint. Her own dress is no better, her skirts marred with little dots of red and blue paint. Dara won’t be pleased, to say the very least.

“I didn’t always have the most comfortable life,” he admits with a shrug. With a pang of guilt, she pauses and starts to apologise, but stops at the sight of his grin. “You’ve done well here. I truly believe Dale will be great again someday.”

Though much of the destruction and effects of the dragon fire remain, their efforts haven’t been in vain. Potted plants now dwell on windowsills, growing herbs and tomatoes, and though autumn has stripped the vines of their leaves, they continue to spread across the walls. Streamers and banners are being hung from any available surface for the festivities, and those they pass smile at them. She’d had her doubts, the cost of such excess weighing on her mind, but there’s a sense of excitement in the air, something she hopes will make it all worth it.

“I hope so,” she smiles.

“We in the mountain look forward to the day when Bard the Dragonslayer is made King. I can think of no one better for the task.” Fíli tells her, and she stares at him for a moment in surprise, something warm and tender stirring in her chest. For the first time, she feels a surge of affection and fights the urge to hug him, to thank him for his faith in her father.

Not that she needs his faith, though. She knows in her heart that her father will make a good king, fair and just, and so will her brother, when the time comes. Her people will never again have to suffer the whims of a greedy, selfish ruler. They have that, at least, to depend on, and give them hope that all their hard work and suffering won’t be for nought.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, though the words don’t quite feel adequate enough.

Whatever else she might have said is lost when she spies a familiar face hurrying along the street towards them. Árni, the young boy who’d lost his mother and two older brothers in the battle, waves as he approaches, his hands and knees filthy from working in the fields.

“G’Afternoon, Miss Sigrid.” Árni calls, and nods respectfully at Fíli. “Beggin’ your pardon, but I’ve been sent you find you, miss. Einar says we’ve got a problem in the field, thought you’d be the best to talk to, what with Lord Bard being busy in the mountain.”

“What kind of problem?” She asks, fearing the worst.

The fields have been their most difficult challenge, by far. For months, they survived off of Thranduil’s charity, and whatever game there was to be found, while the desolate plains around the city were being ploughed and planted. She remembers how they prayed, that winter would be forgiving and that the seeds would take. She doesn’t fear winter like she once did, not now that the crops are growing well, and they have enough in their stores to see them through, but all the same… the worry still lingers, a fear she can’t quite let go of yet.

“It’s best if I show you, miss.” He replies, with a small wince that doesn’t go unnoticed. “It’s the south field, the one near the fork of the east river. We didn’t even notice it at first, would’ve thought nothing of it if I hadn’t – if – ”

“Is there something wrong with your hand?” She asks, her gaze dropping to the hand he holds awkwardly behind his back. “Show me,” she presses.

Árni reluctantly shows her, and she frowns. Strips of dirty cloth are wrapped loosely around his hand, stained, and wet with blood. The boy doesn’t look pale, though he looks a little green around gills when she unties the cloth with care, inspecting the wound for herself. The cut isn’t deep, but runs jaggedly across his palm and in the space between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches…” She tells him, and he sighs in what sounds like relief. “Here,” she says as she bends his arm at the elbow, “hold your arm up like this, until you can get it properly bandaged. With _clean_ bandages, mind. Is your Da at home?”

“Yes, miss. He was when I last checked.”

“Good, hurry home then, and get him to see to this. Make sure you wash it first, before you bandage it. Don’t want to risk it getting infected.” She says, and smiles faintly at his solemn nod. “Don’t worry, you’ll live.”

“I’m sorry,” she says once the boy has scampered off, turning her attention back to Fíli. “It’ll probably be nothing, but…”

“I understand,” Fíli tells her.  His hand is on her arm, and it seems to hesitate. If she were braver, she might have covered that hand with her own. “Would you mind if I – if I came with you?” He adds after a moment, looking up at her with a small, apologetic smile. “It seems wrong that our efforts have been entirely focused on Erebor, we haven’t taken enough interest in Dale.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She murmurs. _You married me, after all._

And as much as she might try to deny it, so much hangs on their marriage. It gives her people peace of mind, knowing that they will not suffer if all goes ill with the Dwarf King once more. It is something they depend on, putting a little more pressure on her shoulders than she would’ve liked. But, at least, she doesn’t have to bare that weight alone.

“Do you spend much time in the fields?” He asks once they continue walking down the street.

“Not as much time as I’d like,” she admits. “In the beginning, Da would send me in his place when he was too busy, to oversee how things were coming along and calculate the costs. I’ve got more of a head for numbers than him, so it made sense. It comes in handy, sometimes – though, they only really come to me for help when Da’s in one of his moods and think I’m the lesser of two evils, so to speak…”

“They don’t let me do much.” She continues, grumbling, her tongue feeling strangely loose. Later, she would blame the sun. Or her lack of sleep. Or the curious, yet bemused look on Fíli’s face. It spurs her on, making her admit more than she most likely should have. “As though all the airs and graces they’ve been puttin’ on me makes me afraid of hard work. I only wish that they’d let me do more.”

“I understand how you feel,” Fíli sighs. “I know it may not seem that way, but I do – truly, I do, understand how it feels to be…”

She turns to him when he trails off, a contemplative look in his eyes. “My life in Ered Luin was very different; I was a smith, the same as my uncle, and a prince only in name. No one expected anything of me, no one treated me any differently to any other Dwarf. And for so long, it was just Kíli and I on the road, travelling from place to place… I spent so long sleeping under the stars that it seems strange to wake within a room, on a proper bed. Erebor was just something from my mother and uncle’s stories, this far off place that I only ever dreamed of seeing…”

“Do you ever miss it?” She wonders.

“Some things,” he says. “I used to miss my mother, before she came here. But I miss the road, most of all. It almost seems a waste, to stay in one place, when there’s a whole world out there… but this is home now, I suppose. It was hard earned, so I ought to enjoy it.”

Unsure what to say, she hums noncommittally. She’d dreamed of being a wanderer once, a life lived following her feet wherever they took her. Her mother’s stories had spurred her on, made her wish for more than her lot in life. She’d fancied herself to be an explorer, imagined that one day she’d see all there was to see. But then her mother had died, and any wild ideas of leaving left her thoughts for good.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Fíli says as they cross the southern bridge, the long stretch of land coming into view.  “Uncle wishes to assign you a personal guard, at least for the duration of the festivities.”

“A guard?” She frowns. “What for?”

“With so many visiting the mountain, you can’t be too careful.” He tells her, his expression unusually serious. “I know that Dara usually accompanies you, but… well, I’d feel a bit better, knowing you were… It would… it would ease my mind.”

He trials off, and she sighs a little, in defeat, knowing she’ll be unable to deny such a request.

“As you wish,” she murmurs.

Silence falls between them, her thoughts elsewhere as they walk down the slope from the city into the plains. Her thoughts wander, to Dwarven women and the pride they take in their weapons. No one would ever call them weak. They never let anyone treat them any differently. They didn’t need anyone to protect them, they could fight their own battles.

She pushes such thoughts aside when she spots Einar, the tall man crouched and surrounded by a group of men. They don’t notice their approach at first, not until the crunch of dry leaves under Fíli’s heavy boots catches their attention.

“Thank you for taking the time to see us, Lady Sigrid.” Einar calls. “And you, Prince Fíli. It was good of you to come.”

As Einar moves aside, striding forward to shake Fíli’s hand, she sees for the first time what they were looking at. The fence – which her people had spent the better part of a month setting up – should have stood for years without any cause for repairs. Instead, a section of it lies broken, the wood splintered and the thin strings of barbed wire cut loose.

“What happened here?” She asks, a strange shiver of dread running down her spine.

“We’re not too sure, miss.” Einar replies, rubbing his chin in thought. “I reckon something must have spooked one of the cows in the night, and they broke through the fence. There’s a couple missing, and yet… there’s no blood. Not that I can see, anyway. That barbed wire would’ve cut the poor creature’s legs to shreds. All Árni did was catch his hand on one of the sharp edges and it tore his palm open. The poor lad.”

“Yes,” she sighs, “I saw. Is there any other explanation?”

“Not that I can think of, miss. None that make sense.” Einar says, glancing back at the broken fence with a troubled expression. “With your father’s permission, I’d like to send a couple of lads out to find any trace of the missing cows. And then there’s the cost of the repairs. It shouldn’t take too much to repair the damage, but we’ll need more wood and iron and I suppose it all adds up.”

“We can provide whatever iron you need.” Fíli tells him, and several of the men frown. He continues with a smile, oblivious. “And if you ever need an extra set of hands, I know a few dozen Dwarves who would be willing to help.”

A few of the men mutter amongst themselves, their expressions darkening.  _Oh, for goodness’ sake,_ she sighs inwardly. Before they can argue, and let their damned pride get the better of them, she reaches out and takes Fíli’s hand. That shuts them up.

“That is very kind of you, thank you.” She says before she turns her attention back to Einar and his men, who she is very tempted to scowl at until they learn how to behave themselves. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention. I will tell my father about this right away.”

“Thank you, miss. I hope you both have a good day.” Einar replies, the only one who seems to remember his manners.

She keeps her hold on Fíli’s hand, and leaves without another word.

“Did I say something wrong?” Fíli asks once they are out of earshot. She glances down at him and shakes her head, quite unsure why she feels so annoyed. But she knows, even if the others won’t accept it, that in spite of the war and dragon fire the Dwarves brought down on their heads, they have done well by her people. They deserve some kindness and respect.

“No,” she sighs. “It wasn’t you.”

When his brows furrow, she gives his hand a small squeeze. “It was a kind offer. They’re just too bloody pigheaded to see it. Don’t pay any attention to them, most have the good sense to see that you Dwarves have been good to us, but –”

“But not everyone agrees?” He guesses.

“Some are simply determined not to like you,” she tells him as she releases her hold on his hand. “Outsiders weren’t welcome in Lake-town, and that’s something some have held onto. And the others – well, I suppose they lost too much to the dragon or the battle to be forgiving of anyone. They can’t hold onto their grief and anger forever though, they’ll see sense one day.”

“Maybe they’re right,” he says, a sad note creeping into his voice. She hadn’t wanted that. Anything but that. “Had we never come – had we not awoken that beast, you would still have your home –”

“I’m glad you did.” She suddenly says, surprising herself. She’d wanted to console him, to bring a smile back to his face, and instead she told the truth – a truth she hadn’t even known until she spoke the words aloud. “I miss my home, and I always will, but I’m glad you’re here – glad you came through my toilet that day. If I could go back – if I could change it – I don’t know if I would.”  

She doesn’t know why she’s telling him – why she’s telling him something she has told no one else – but it feels like a remedy to a hurt she hadn’t even known as there. And when he smiles, it’s worth it. 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s still paint under her nails a week later. She picks at it as King Thorin announces the commencement of the fighting tournaments.

Throughout the week, the stretch of land between the mountain and Dale has been transformed into tournament grounds. There are dozens upon dozens of stalls, selling food and wares, and wooden stands designed for spectating the different events. Any – Man, Dwarf or Elf – can enter in the competitions, something which has been the talk of both Erebor and Dale for months.

She fidgets, uncomfortable in her new dress and under the weight of all the jewels Dara forced her to wear. She sits beside her father, who looks equally as uncomfortable in his new attire. Bain and Tilda, on the other hand, look entirely too pleased with themselves as they conspire with Prince Legolas, who had promised that morning to win the archery tournament for them.

Her gaze shifts to the arena below them, trying to pick Fíli out of the crowd of competitors. A small, silly part of her wonders if he still has the flower she’d given him. She hasn’t seen much of him throughout the week, spending most of her time being dragged from stall to stall with Bain and Tilda and keeping them out of trouble.

Her attention wanders as the tournament commences, having little love for fighting. As Men, Elves and Dwarves battle in pairs, she leans forward to sit her elbows on her knees, and rests her chin on her hand as she idly blows a loose lock of hair away from her face.

She straightens when Fíli’s name is called from the lists, looking up in time to see him stepping out into the arena. The Dwarves around them cheer and stomp their feet at the sight of their Prince, who grins and waves one of his swords over his head. She watches curiously as his opponent joins him in the arena, a former guard of the Master, who nods respectfully before drawing his sword.

There’s something mischievous in Fíli’s grin as he twirls his twin swords, something that brings a smile to her own face. Her father notices, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He nudges her shoulder with his, stealing her attention for a moment.

“I thought you didn’t like fighting.” He says dubiously.

She scowls. “I _don’t._ ”

Her father just cocks a brow, and she returns her attention to the fight.

Fíli fights differently to his opponent; he wields two weapons instead of one and is surprisingly quick on his feet. He dances around the man, avoiding the swing of his sword with ease. He ducks out of the way of his opponent’s sword, smacking the back of his knees with the side of one of his swords. The man stumbles, cursing, and Fíli grins.

Within minutes the man is panting, his movements growing clumsy, resorting to swinging wildly at Fíli. Fíli’s grin never fades.

“Do you yield?” He calls, loud enough for his audience to hear. Several, including the King, laugh and others shout encouragements, all clearly favouring their Prince to win. His opponent growls, thrusting out his sword. He would’ve caught Fíli’s side had he not darted out of the way. Fíli lets out a laugh, circling his opponent like a predator would its prey.

“Nice try,” he grins before he lunges and knocks the man’s sword from his hands.

A great cheer rises up when Fíli’s opponent yields, the man snatching up his sword and stalking out of the arena with a thunderous expression. She finds herself smiling and joining in with the applause when Fíli looks her way.

Her eyes follow him as he leaves the arena, her attention fading the very instant he is out of sight. Once the next set of opponents enters the arena, she sighs. She ignores her father’s entertained expression and leans into his side instead, resting her head on his shoulder when he wraps an arm around her. She watches the next dozen or so fights disinterestedly, but comfortably, at least.

“Are you not going to fight, Da?” Tilda asks, managing to tear her attention away from Prince Legolas for just a moment.

“No, darling. It wouldn’t be fair to the other competitors.” Her father replies, with a wink that sends Tilda into a fit of giggles. “The archery contest is tempting, though. It’s been so long since I’ve used my bow, my arm is getting flabby.”

“But _Da,_ Prince Legolas said he was going to win the contest for us!” Tilda cries, clutching onto the Prince’s hand. She meets his gaze, smirking at his amused, yet bewildered expression. “You have to promise you won’t sulk too much when he beats you.”

“A little competition is good for everyone, Princess.” Legolas says, ruffling her sister’s hair.

Unsurprisingly, her people don’t make it far into the competition. Most had never held a sword in their life before the battle. And when it comes down to the final matches, it is only Dwarves and a handful of Elves who are left. The Elves are swift, graceful and fight tactically, while the Dwarves use their strength to their advantage, wielding great battle axes and hammers. They’re strong, hardy and never seem to tire.

Even so, she cannot help but feel nervous when Fíli re-enters the arena at last, to face Dwalin.

The hulking, bald-headed Dwarf is intimidating, to say the very least. He trudges into the arena wielding two massive axes and his seemingly permanent scowl.  She has yet to forgive him for threatening Bain, and so she leans forward in her seat, willing Fíli to win this round so that she might see him beaten. She ignores her father’s knowing look, her eyes fixed on the two Dwarves circling each other in the arena.

Dwalin charges at Fíli with a roar, swinging one of his axes in an arc through the air. Fíli ducks, laughing as he rolls out of the way of Dwalin’s second swing. The crowd cheers, distracting him for just a moment. Instinctively, she clutches onto her father’s arm, wanting to bury her face in his shoulder when Dwalin catches Fíli in the side with the hilt of his axe and knocks him onto the ground.

“He’s not going to hurt him,” her father murmurs as he smooths his hand over her hair. “They’re fighting with dull blades.”

“They don’t look dull to me,” she mutters under her breath and her father laughs.

The two Dwarves are well matched and the fight lasts longer than she’d thought it would. She winces every time their blades meet and flinches when Dwalin releases a battle cry that would’ve sent her running for the hills. It doesn’t seem to phase Fíli; he grins and twirls his sword whenever the other Dwarf takes a moment to catch his breath.

“I’ve had enough of fighting for one day,” she huffs when Dwalin knocks one of Fíli’s swords from his grasp. The sword clatters to the ground, out of reach. The crowd cheers, and she hears Kíli shouting encouragements as his brother resorts to using a single sword. 

“Let’s go find some more of those toffee apples you like so much, Tilda.” She says, holding her hand out to her sister as she stands. Tilda looks up at her and her outstretched hand and blinks, her brows furrowed. She half-expects her to argue, but instead Tilda jumps to her feet and grabs Prince Legolas’ sleeve, dragging him to his feet with a surprising show of strength.

“Only if Prince Legolas can come too.” She insists, grinning hopefully up at her. Sigrid would have apologised for her sister’s behaviour if not for the amused look on the Prince’s face. She meets Legolas’ gaze for a moment and laughs quietly.

Tilda, sensing her victory, cheers and latches onto the Prince’s arm. Sigrid smiles fondly at yet another poor soul who is wrapped around Tilda’s little finger, before she glances back at the arena. Her smile falters when Fíli suddenly looks up and meets her gaze. Dwalin flies at him with a roar, no doubt expecting him to dodge the blow, as he had done every time before. Instead, Fíli reacts just a moment too late, and the butt of Dwalin’s axe hits him hard in the side of his head.

Everything seems to happen very slowly after that.

One moment, Fíli is stood there, looking up at her, and the next he is on the ground. The crowd cheers for the victor, but Dwalin stares down at Fíli in obvious surprise. When Fíli doesn’t move, the Dwarf tosses his axes aside and drops to his knees, shouting his name.

“Sigrid! You’re hurting me!” Tilda cries and she looks back at her in alarm, not realising how tightly she’d been gripping onto her hand.

“Sorry,” she murmurs and lets go of Tilda’s hand.

The crowd, which had been in uproar only moments ago, is silent when Kíli leaps to his feet and bounds over the heads of the Dwarves sat in front of him, rushing down the stands to be by his brother’s side. When Kíli drops into the arena, shouting his brother’s name, Tilda wraps her arms around her waist and presses her face into her side.  

It takes Dwalin, Kíli and three other Dwarves to carry Fíli out of the arena.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. A little concussed, perhaps, but that’s nothing to concern yourself with.” Her father says, his voice low, trying his best to be soothing. He wraps his arm loosely around her shoulders as he guides them from the stands, her legs unsteady.

_Nothing to concern myself with?_ She thinks to herself in disbelief. _Nothing?_ It didn’t look like nothing.

“No, I need – I should go see if he’s alright.”

She doesn’t quite understand the depth of her concern, or why she feels dizzy with it. She only knows that Fíli is  _something_  to her – a friend – a confidant – something entirely unexpected, and her heart hammers wildly in her chest at the thought of him being hurt.

“I’ll find you later,” she says as once they reach the bottom of the stands.

She doesn’t wait for a response. She steps into the arena, eyeing the discarded weapons warily. The crowd has dispersed, and she feels strangely small as she stands alone in an empty arena. Hearing shouting, she turns and spots Óin almost immediately. She follows the grey-haired Dwarf as he makes his way towards the mountain and into what must be the healing tents. There are a few people stood outside the tent with cuts and bruises, waiting to be seen to, and a man sat on a stool with an arrow sticking out of his thigh.

“I’m sorry about this,” he says to the Elven healer tending to his leg. The man shakes his head, looking embarrassed. “My wee lad – he didn’t mean to. All he wanted to do was show me how well he’s been doing with his new bow.”

She wanders further into the tent, until she finally sees Fíli laid out on one of the beds.

It brings back a flood of memories she’d rather have done without. After the battle, she’d offered to help, not knowing quite the extent of the Princes’ injuries. She didn’t know much about healing, but knew how tie a bandage properly and keep a fever at bay. She’d wanted to help, feeling indebted to the Dwarves, knowing she and Tilda never would have made it out of Lake-town without their help.

_With their wounds, I don’t know how they’re alive,_ one of the healers had told her. _A miracle,_ they’d called it. She hadn’t understood why, not until she saw them for herself. They’d been found on the battlefield together, fallen defending their uncle. Three arrows - one in his back, his shoulder and hand – and a blade in the gut, but it had been a cut on his thigh that almost killed Fíli. The infection had taken hold of him, kept him sleeping for almost a month. She’d been there for some of it, doing what little she could…

“How is he?” She asks, hating how small her voice sounds.

“Worrying us for no reason, _again.”_ Kíli complains from where he sits at his brother’s bedside. The others murmur in agreement, save for Dwalin, who she notices for the first time. Her eyes narrow and she strides towards him, giving him a weak shove.

“You _brute._ What were you thinking?”

Dwalin’s heavy brows lift. “Brute?”

“Look at him!” She exclaims, gesturing wildly at Fíli. “Look what you did!”

“Settle down, lass. Fíli’ll be right as rain in no time.” Óin calls from across the room, and she falters, her anger cut short as she watches the Dwarf tend to Fíli. The side of his head is already black and blue, and there’s a nasty looking cut on his temple. “It’s only a concussion,” he reassures her when the sight of his blood makes her pale.

“You’re certain?” She can’t help but ask, clasping her hands together to stop them from trembling.

“Aye,” the healer grunts and then shifts his attention to the other Dwarves. “Help me get him out of his armour, would ya lads?”

She watches, hovering awkwardly while Kíli and Dwalin help strip Fíli of his armour. They find a staggering amount of daggers and other weapons on his person, creating quite a pile at his bedside – though she is the only one who looks surprised by it. Underneath his armour, he wears a simple tunic and Óin frowns, drawing something out of his breast pocket. The healer holds out his hand with a questioning look, unfurling his fingers to show what rests on his palm.

Her flower. A single, slightly crushed forget me not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eekkk, i'm sorry this took so long. i still haven't gotten my laptop fixed and i'm so super slow when it comes to typing on my ipad. the next update shouldn't take as long though, i promise :)
> 
> don't worry about sigrid and dwalin. they'll be bros eventually.
> 
> hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks a million for reading, and all the lovely kudos and bookmarks and comments <3


	9. Chapter 9

As she watches the slow but steady rise and fall of Fíli’s chest, she twirls the little blue flower between her thumb and finger.

The tent is quiet, save for the soft scraping sound of Kíli’s dagger as he drags it over a whetstone. The others had left once Óin swore that no lasting damage has been done to their Prince, trudging off to enjoy the rest of the day’s festivities, leaving only her and Kíli behind. She would have left as well, if Kíli had not grabbed her hand when she’d started to leave.

“He’ll want you here, when he wakes up.” Kíli had said, and so she stayed.

“I never remember to sharpen them,” Kíli tells her when he notices her gaze shift to the dagger in his hand, his voice soft and contemplative. She’s not sure how long the two have sat there in silence, but it feels like a long time. “Fíli always ends up having to do it for me. He’s funny like that; his weapons are his pride and joy. He loves them. Flowers, though? Not so much.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” She says, avoiding his gaze. “Just something pretty that caught his eye.”

Kíli hums noncommittally. “Maybe.”

With a small sigh, her attention returns to Fíli. He looks peaceful, all things considered. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek that she almost unconsciously reaches out to and wipes away with her sleeve. The tips of her fingers brush against his jaw when she draws away, unaware of Kíli’s watchful gaze until she’s sat back in her seat.

“Where was this caring bedside manner when I was injured?” He complains, and though he looks wounded, she can see a familiar glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “I haven’t forgotten the walnuts, y’know. I know that was you.”

“There were already on the table! It’s not my fault you decided to rest your head on them.”

“You pretended not to hear me when I asked for a pillow!”

He has her there. “I didn’t want to get them dirty. You’d just been in the lake and –”

“Dirty?” He laughs. “It’s not like it mattered, it all got burnt to a crisp anyway.”

It stings, even though she knows he’s only teasing. It must seem silly to him, that she was so worried about keeping her home in order, when only a few hours later it was set ablaze and destroyed beyond repair. She hadn’t known it at the time – not truly. A part of her had hoped, when she’d seen her father with the black arrow, that he’d stop the dragon before anything bad could happen. She’d scrubbed the blood from the floors once the others had dumped the Orcs in the lake; she hadn’t wanted her father to see the blood and worry when he got home. It seems silly now, but she hadn’t known. She hadn’t known…

“How is Tauriel?” She asks, steering the conversation in an entirely different direction. “I haven’t had a chance to speak to her yet.”

“She is well,” Kíli grins. “And I wouldn’t worry, you will see much of her if all goes well.”

Her eyebrows lift a fraction. “Oh?” 

The mischief in Kíli’s eyes makes her wary. He sets down his dagger and whetstone and turns his head, tugging on one of his braids. Dara had been annoyingly unforthcoming when it came to braids and their meanings, insisting she ought to ask Fíli such a question. When Kíli glances back at her, grinning, she blinks in confusion, failing to see what is so damn telling about hair.

“What am I looking at?” She has to ask, and Kíli rolls his eyes.

“This braid shows that I have found my One.” He answers, as if it were obvious.

She frowns, more confused than ever, but a sudden, and well-timed groan from Fíli stops her from prying any further. The Dwarf in question groans as his eyes slowly open, lifting one hand to rub the side of his head and hissing when he comes into contact with his injury. Kíli is on his feet in a flash, slapping his hand away from the gash on his temple.

“What was that for?” Fíli splutters, staring blearily up at his brother.

“Don’t touch that.”  Kíli scolds.

Fíli pulls a face, but does as he’s told. His brother ruffles his hair and he laughs. She breathes a little better when she sees him smiling and laughing with his brother, it eases her nerves. It did something strange to her, to see him hurt. It worried her more than it should have, it was – after all – only a bump on the head. It’s not like last time, after the battle when –

“I should fetch Óin and the others,” she says quietly, not wishing to disturb the moment between the two brothers. As she gets to her feet, she curls her fingers carefully around the little flower in her hand.  “They’ll want to know that you’re awake.”

Fíli is still pale, his long hair a tangled mess and the braid that hangs by his temple is stained a rusty brown with blood, but when he smiles – it nearly stops her in her tracks. She has to duck out of the small room quickly, before she does something embarrassing like cling to him and demand that he never worries her again.

“She’s been here all this time,” she hears Kíli say once she has left their section of the tent and she pauses for a moment, lingering to hear whatever Fíli might say in response. “Called old Mister Dwalin a brute for hurting you.”

When Fíli laughs, she hears Kíli splutter. “It’s true! I think she hurt his feelings, left in a right sulk he did.”

“I think you’re wrong, y’know.” Kíli continues, quieter, and she can barely make out what he’s saying. “I think she likes you a little more than she lets on. Looked awfully worried, for someone who doesn’t care, if you ask me.”

She hurries away quickly, her cheeks burning. The tent is quieter now, mercifully there is no one there to see her as she presses her cold fingers to her cheeks in an attempt to bring down her sudden flush. She blames Kíli, for sticking his big nose where it didn’t belong. She’s tempted to tear the soft stuffing out of all his pillows, and replace them with walnuts, just to teach him a lesson.

She steps out of the tent, heaving a sigh. It’s later than she’d expected; the sun is beginning to set, casting long, dark shadows across the plain between Dale and the mountain. Most will have called it a day on the festivities, retiring into the mountain for the feast. She looks around her, wondering where Óin wandered off to, and blinks in surprise when she catches sight of Dwalin. The burly Dwarf is sat on a stool by the side of the tent, polishing his knuckledusters, with an eyebrow raised at her.

“How’s the lad?” He asks, setting his knuckledusters down.

“Awake,” she replies. “I was just looking for Óin…”

“He’s not here, went to fetch the lad’s mother. I suspect he’ll be back soon.”

“Oh,” she mumbles lamely. “That’s good.”

She fiddles with a loose thread on her dress, unsure what else to say or do. She isn’t ready to go back into the tent just yet, not when her cheeks still feel like they’re on fire, but the thought of leaving never once crosses her mind. She glances back at the Dwarf, who looks just as uncomfortable in the silence as her, and sighs quietly.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “for calling you a brute.”

“S’alright, lass, I’ve been called worse.”

She frowns. “No, I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t mean to hurt him.”

He just grunts in response and returns his attention to his knuckledusters. 

“You don’t have to sit out here. You can go see him, if you –”

“I’m not just a visitor, lass.” Dwalin interrupts, looking pointedly down at the shiny knuckledusters on his lap and the axe strapped to his back. It takes her a moment to understand; it isn’t just out of concern that he remains. He’s keeping watch, and guarding them – from what, she isn’t entirely sure. “So I will stay out here, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Is it necessary?” She finds herself asking, worry creeping back in. She remembers what Dara said, about there being some troublemakers amongst Lord Dáin’s folk. “I mean – no one would actually want to hurt Fíli and Kíli on purpose, would they?”

Dwalin shrugs. “It’s always better to be safe than sorry.”

She didn’t know much of intricacies of politics, she knew only what she’d seen for herself. The Master of Lake-town had feared assassins and uprising. When he stopped looking after his people, her father had had to. He’d spoken for them, when no one else did, and the Master had feared him for it. Had the Dwarves and the dragon never come, the Master might have acted on his threats. Her father might’ve ended up at the bottom of the Long Lake, or rotted away in a prison cell. The thought makes her wonder what is being done, whether the so-called troublemakers are being watched and followed, the way her and her family had once been.

“And are they safe?” She wonders aloud.

The Dwarf doesn’t get the chance to respond, he catches sight of something behind her and gets to his feet, loudly clearing his throat. She half-turns, following his gaze, and sees the King and Princess Dís making their way towards them, accompanied by Óin and Balin. She straightens the moment Dís looks her way and in a way she hopes is subtle, she tucks the little blue flower in her hand into her dress pocket.

“Good evening.” She says in greeting, and smiles at Balin and Óin.

“Fíli’s awake.” Dwalin tells them. “While you look in on him, I’ll take the lass back to the mountain.”

She almost argues with him – almost. But in the presence of the King and Fíli’s mother, she loses her resolve. All she can do is nod meekly, and follow Dwalin as he gestures for her to follow him. She looks back though, as they make their way to the mountain. And though she tries to push them to the back of her mind, Kíli’s words bother her. Surely, he can’t think she doesn’t care? They aren’t exactly the picture of a perfect marriage, but she likes to think that they are, in the very least, friends.

“The feast’ll be starting soon. It’s a shame about all the Elves, a waste of good food…” Dwalin mutters, as if trying for small talk.

The sound of whistling draws her attention as they near the gates of Erebor, and she pauses. The tournament grounds are quiet, and so it doesn’t take her long to find the whistler. Walking the road between Erebor and Dale, is a man – young, from the looks of him, and dressed in a beaten travelling cloak, with poorly stitched patches, and a burlap sack thrown over his shoulder.

The tune, when she finally recognises it, is what jogs her memory.

“Gared?” She calls uncertainly.

The young man pauses, glancing back at her over his shoulder, and a chill runs down her spine. How could she not have recognised him at once? Her father’s friend, Gunnar’s youngest son – his only son left; Arvid and Randal had been lost in the dragon fire and Balder cut down by Orcs – who’d nearly lost an eye in the battle. He’d been amongst the few who could not bear to remain after the battle, calling Dale a graveyard and the mountain cursed. He’d gone west to find work where he could, or at least, that was what he told them.

“Sigrid! Is that really you?” He exclaims, and when he grins and jogs towards them, he is the same shaggy haired, beanpole she’d grown up with. It’s almost enough for her not to see his scars. Forgetting about Dwalin, she hurries to meet him halfway.

The wounds around his right eye have healed well, better than she’d ever expected. But there is no hiding the jagged lines around his eye and across his cheek. She can only hope that the time away has healed his spirit, as his parents had prayed it would.

“It’s so good to see you,” she says and laughs when he wraps his arms around her and nearly lifts her off her feet.  “I don’t understand, what are you doing here? I didn’t think I’d see you again for a long time, your Da said you’d gone west.”

“Aye, that’s true. Went as far as Bree, I did. You should see it, Sigrid, the forests and green hills – it’s nothing like this place.” His smile dims when he looks around them, at the mountain that towers over them and the land that it still healing. “I wouldn’t’ve come back, at least not so soon, but my mother wanted me here, for the memorial and your Da’s coronation.”

“You’ll be staying then, until the spring? That’s when the coronation is set to take place. Da wanted to put it off longer, but everyone is quite insistent.” The Elves have proved to be the most insistent, the Elvenking in particular. She suspects it is because Thranduil wants someone more on his side than Thorin’s; the two Kings seem to squabble over her father like two children over the same toy.

“Princess Sigrid,” he laughs. “Who would’ve thought it, eh?”

“It’s taking some getting used to.” She says with a small, deprecating smile.

“And I suppose a high and mighty lady like yourself can’t be friends with a lowly farm boy like myself, eh?”

“If you promise never to call me that again, I’ll still call you my friend.” She grins. And when Dwalin clears his throat, her smile falters. She glances back at him and the Dwarf scowls, jerking his chin towards the mountain. “I’m on my way to the feast in the mountain. You should join me, Bain and Tilda will be happy to see you. Your parents will be there too, I’m sure.”

“Sig’, I don’t think I’m dressed for it,” he laughs and gestures towards his weathered clothes.

“It doesn’t matter,” she presses and tugs at his sleeve.

“Alright,” he grins. “If you insist.”

He catches her hand when she releases his sleeve, giving it a weak squeeze. “I can’t say I missed this place much – but I missed you, Sig’. Thought about you sometimes, about all our talks about escapin’. You remember that?”

“Of course I remember.” She murmurs and gently tugs her hand free, feeling Dwalin’s eyes burning holes in her back.

“Gared, this is Mister Dwalin. He’s the Captain of the Guard.” She says as they approach the scowling Dwarf. “And Dwalin, this is Gared, one of my oldest friends.” Dwalin doesn’t look particularly happy, but she chooses to ignore it, for the moment.

As they walk towards the mountain and pass through the gates, Gared tells her about his journey – Dwalin’s scowl deepens when Gared mentions all the cheerful looking Halflings he’d seen working the fields near Bree – and all the nights spent in places she’s never heard of, and in that moment, wishes she could see. He doesn’t look particularly taken by the mountain, but she doesn’t expect him to – she knows him well enough to know that he holds no love for the Dwarves, not after what happened to him and his brothers, and that he hasn’t been around to see all the good they have done for their people. However when they reach the great hall, his mouth falls open a little.

They exchange a smile, sharing the same thought. Before the Dwarves, feasts and celebration were but a distant memory. When she was very young, before the Master started bleeding the town’s treasury dry, the town would come together to celebrate Midsummer’s Eve. The Master would open the doors to the Great Hall, and music and laughter filled the night. She remembers hiding under a table with the other children, Gared included, sneaking treats, and her mother and father laughing as they danced together.

The fond, but distant memory couldn’t have prepared her for the Dwarves. Even in the company of a King and his Elven guests, they make no effort to contain themselves. When she’d first come to the mountain, she’d been uncertain whether or not she was supposed to find their antics amusing. She makes no effort to hide her amusement now – not that anyone is ever sober enough to notice, anyway.

The King’s table is empty, save for several members of the Company. Dwalin leaves them when she chooses to sits with her father instead, trudging off to the King’s table to snatch the flute from Bofur’s hands. Her father, who is deep in conversation with Thranduil, smiles when they approach and gestures towards the empty seats between him and Bain and Tilda.

“Gared!” Bain exclaims when they sit down.

“You’re back!” Tilda cries, and clambers over Sigrid’s lap to give Gared a hug.

Tilda babbles happily, telling Gared all about her friend – and future husband – Prince Legolas, as though the Elf, who is sat opposite them, can’t hear her. Sigrid exchanges a smile with the Prince before she starts helping herself to some of the food on the table.

Amongst the Dwarves, food is tossed back and forth, with heavy purses of gold coins wagered on who will catch it in their mouths and who won’t. Every now and again someone will get to their feet, and bellow something that will cause everyone to cheer and smash their mugs together. Songs are frequent too, most are loud and incoherent, but some she enjoys.

“What’s this?” Gared murmurs some time into the meal, catching her hand when she reaches for some more roasted parsnips. She follows his gaze to the gold ring on her finger. He looks back at her with a bemused expression. “You’re married?”

“You didn’t know?” Tilda cuts in, before she has the chance to answer. “Sigrid married a Dwarf!”

“A Dwarf?” He repeats, and she wishes he didn’t look so appalled. “Not that bald fellow? Mister Dwalin, was it?”

“Goodness no.” She mutters, the thought putting her off her dinner.

“Never pegged you for the marrying sort.” Gared says with a smile, releasing his hold on her hand. “I s'pose I just told myself that to make me feel better, I can’t even remember how many times you turned my sorry self down.”

“That’s because we were eight!” She laughs.

“I always thought she’d marry you.” Tilda says, smiling innocently.

Gared grins. “Is that so?”

“Sigrid didn’t even want to marry Fíli,” Tilda prattles on. “She just did it because Da asked her to.”

“Tilda, that’s _enough.”_ She hisses under her breath, wanting nothing more than to pull her sister’s hair until she shut up, like she did when they were younger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s not true!” Tilda cries, stubbornly jutting her chin out. “You told me so. _You_ said –”

A great cheer rises up, and she looks up to see the King entering the hall. The King’s arrival distracts Gared and her sister, enough to put any talk about her marriage aside for the moment. Fíli and Kíli follow the King into the hall, alongside Dís and Tauriel. Something tight in her chest eases at the sight of the two brothers laughing, and the colour in Fíli’s once ashen cheeks.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she murmurs and gets to her feet.

The King’s table is situated at the head of the hall, and she has to manoeuvre her way through groups of drunken Dwarves, while doing her best to avoid her feet being trodden on by their heavy boots.

Both Princes have changed for the feast, looking very princely indeed in similar navy tunics and armour. And Tauriel – looking so otherworldly and beautiful that she puts them all to same – smiles brightly at her as she approaches, reaching out to touch her cheek in a manner that makes her suddenly feel very young. She’s lucky, at least, that the Elf doesn’t pinch her cheek, like some of the other Elves are wont to do.

She sneaks a glance at Fíli, who smiles broadly when she meets his eye.

“ _Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn_ , daughter of Bard.” Tauriel says, drawing her attention back to her. There are beads in her long hair, silver, with little sapphires, the same as Kíli’s.  “Your sister and brother are well, I hope? And your father as well?”

“Very well,” she smiles. “It is good to see you again, Tauriel.”

“Princess Dís has invited me to join her for tea tomorrow, you should join us.”

“Oh, thank you, but –”

Tauriel’s smile grows somewhat strained. “ _Please.”_

“Of course,” she says and she has to bite her lip to supress her grimace. “I’d love to join you.”

Tauriel beams at her, touching her cheek again before she makes her way over to the King’s table and slides into the chair beside Kíli. Several Dwarves around them mutter unhappily at this, glaring daggers and grinding their teeth, but the red-haired Elf appears too enraptured with her Dwarf to notice. This leaves her alone – at least, alone as anyone can be in a hall full of people – with Fíli for a moment. The Dwarf Prince meets her gaze with a smile, before taking a step towards her.

“You’re looking better,” she tells him.

“Had you worried for no reason,” he quips. With a smirk, he rubs his jaw, making the beads in his plaited moustache sway. “Us Dwarves have thick skulls. Like a brick. It’ll take more than the blunt side of Mister Dwalin’s axe to get through that.”

She tilts her head to one side, fighting a smile. “Who said I was worried?”

He just cocks a brow, calling her bluff, and her grin spreads uncontrollably.

“I suppose that flower didn’t turn out to be so lucky, in the end.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, holding her gaze.

It’s at this moment that Bofur, who has a gift in making up a tune out of anything, chooses to clamber onto the King’s table and draws his flute out from inside his coat. She half-turns to watch him, looking forward to an encore of the Man in the Moon or an upbeat ballad about the Company’s many adventures. It is with a slightly sadder note, however, that he starts to sing a new song – one she hasn’t heard before –

_Blunt the knives, bend the forks…_

_That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!_ They’re all deep in their cups by that point, but all of the King’s Company share the same sombre expression once the song is done. Seeing them makes her wonder whether Bilbo knows just how much he is missed, and how dearly he is loved by his friends. And she wonders if it’s worth it; losing them to be back home.

“Curse the Halfling,” Dwalin mutters. “He should be here.”

“Aye,” Glóin grunts.

“The lad would’ve liked this, always was fond of food and good cheer.” Balin laments with a wistful sigh, and she follows his gaze, to Thorin. The King remains silent, as he had done throughout the song. He stares down at his mug of ale with a resigned expression that remains her of when he’d seen Bilbo’s silvery shirt in her hands. It doesn’t seem right to her, that the Hobbit should go so missed, and be unaware of it.

“I’d best be getting back.” She sighs as she turns her attention back to Fíli.

Fíli’s eyebrows rise a fraction. “You won’t be joining us?”

“Someone has to keep Bain and Tilda out of trouble,” she says with a hint of a smile.

She clasps her hands together, the gold band on her finger cool against her skin. Her gaze shifts, quite unintentionally, to Fíli’s left hand and the matching ring on his finger. She hasn’t noticed any other Dwarves wearing – in their eyes, at least – such plain jewellery, leaving her to wonder if it is for her benefit alone. The thought shouldn’t make her smile, but it does.

“We’ll speak later?” She adds, though it comes out more like a question.

With a smile, that makes something in her chest warm, he nods. She makes herself walk away, fighting the smile that tugs persistently at the corners of her lips. Prince Legolas, Gared, and Tilda are nowhere to be seen when she returns to the table, and she glances at Bain when she sits down between him and her father, who shrugs unhelpfully and rolls his eyes.

“What were you and Fíli talking about?” Her father asks, with the same innocent smile as Tilda.

“Nothing.” She mumbles, fiddling with her ring.

“Oh?” Her father grins. “Is that what nothing looks like? Interesting.”

“It didn’t look like nothing to me.” Bain mutters, and the two exchange a smirk, looking far too pleased with themselves.

“You both think you’re so clever,” she laughs. She tries to be annoyed with them, she really does – but as always, she fails miserably. “If you’d forgotten, he took a nasty knock to the head today. I only wanted to see if he was alright.”

Her father’s expression softens. “If you say so, love.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things i like to think all of bard's children inherited from him: archery, and sass.
> 
> thanks for reading <3
> 
> edit: originally i was going to make this fic multiple pov, but a friend of mine suggested that instead i stick with sigrid for this fic, and make it a series once this is finished? i'm really not sure, so i'd love you guys' opinion :) thanks <3


	10. Chapter 10

Early the next morning, before breakfast has even been sent up to her rooms, she finds Tauriel pacing the width of the corridor outside her chambers, wearing an uncertain expression that looks entirely out of place on her features.

She opens the door when she hears voices on the other side, expecting Dara or one of the many Dwarven servants with a tray of food. 

“Are you trying to wear a hole in the ground?” She asks, when calling the Elf’s name fails to gain her attention.

“I thought we might walk together, to meet with Princess Dís.” Tauriel answers eventually, as she continues to pace the width of the corridor. When Sigrid frowns, she continues hurriedly. “It is not that I am nervous – no, that would be… that would be… foolish, of me. There is nothing she can say, after all, to stop Kíli and I from being together. I merely thought that it would be more… prudent if we were to –”

“Tauriel,” she interrupts gently. “It’s not yet breakfast, we weren’t expected to meet with her for several hours.”

“Oh.” The Elf blinks in surprise, her movements stilling.

“Would you like to come in? Some breakfast should be arriving soon.” She says, tightening the belt of her dressing gown. And no sooner had she said it, than a mousy-haired Dwarf carrying a tray of food appears. “You could join me, if you like.”

Tauriel hesitates. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” she smiles. “I’d appreciate the company.”

She opens the door wider and ushers both her and the Dwarf into the room. She thanks the Dwarf when he sets the tray down on the small table in front of the hearth, and closes the door behind him. Once they are alone, Tauriel strides across the room and practically throws herself into one of the armchairs, sighing heavily. Not yet dressed, with sleep rumpled hair and in a dressing gown and socks, she feels almost comically out of place when she sits down opposite Tauriel. She reaches for the teapot, pouring them both a cup of tea.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, I wasn’t aware of the hour.” Tauriel murmurs. “I hope I didn’t wake you, or... or anyone else.”

Her eyebrows lift a fraction, before she realises what she means. Her gaze flickers to the closed door between her room and Fíli’s, something she’d almost forgotten about. She ducks her head to hide the flush spreading across her cheeks, and takes a long sip of tea.

“I thought it might be easier, if I arrived with you.” Tauriel tells her. “We are both outsiders, are we not?”

She smiles slightly. “Well, we’ll never struggle to find each other in a crowd of Dwarves.”

Tauriel laughs quietly at that, and sips her tea. Sigrid smiles to herself as she liberally spreads some jam over a piece of toast, grateful for the company. As fond as she has grown of Dara, she still misses mornings with her family – of waking up just after dawn, with Tilda’s sharp elbows digging into her sides and her cold little feet pressed against hers, and the struggle to get her father to eat something before he rushes off to do one thing or another. Tauriel is a distraction from that, and a welcomed change.

“Have you decided on a date for the wedding yet?”

“I doubt it will be for some time,” Tauriel admits. “Kíli wishes to invite Bilbo Baggins, and he will not be able to travel until spring, at the earliest.  I believe he thinks that if they can lure their Halfling back to the mountain, they will be able to keep him here for good.”

Sigrid laughs quietly along with the Elf, but privately, for King Thorin’s sake, she hopes that they are right. And for the Company, as well. It would be an unkindness for them to have their Hobbit back, only to lose him again. For them – who love their little Burglar so dearly – she is tempted to write to him, to tell him how much he is missed. He showed her kindness once, in gifting her his rooms, and so it’s only right that she does the same and returns the favour. She sets down her tea, already piecing together what she might say in her head.

“Forgive me, for not being here for your wedding. I am sorry I missed that.”

Her smile dims a little, and her gaze drops to her left hand. The gold ring still looks so out of place on her finger.

“You’re here now,” she murmurs. “That’s all that’s important.” Knowing that Kíli and Tauriel are marrying for love is a small comfort; their wedding day will be a happier occasion than hers. Even if it will be less well received.

“Kíli told me there were two ceremonies, one in Dale and the other in the mountain. Is that so?” Tauriel asks with an inquisitive expression, and she nods. “I’m surprised, I hadn’t expected the Dwarves to be so… respectful of your traditions. After all, they make you live here, away from your people and your family, and accommodate to their ways, when they seem to do very little in return.”

“They don’t make me do anything,” she finds herself saying. “I’m free to come and go as I please.”

Tauriel’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “Are you?”

There’s something pleading in Tauriel’s expression, something which makes her realise that it’s not really her they’re talking about. And yet… it gives her something to think about. Tauriel is right, in a way. She’d sacrificed a great deal, in order to meet the Dwarves’ demands.

“It’s alright to be nervous about today,” she says. “I was too when I was first presented to her. Dís can be… intimidating.”

“It isn’t that,” Tauriel sighs. “It is not for my sake, that I hope Dís approves of me. Kíli says he isn’t afraid – that he doesn’t care what people think about us – but he loves his mother, and he will care what she thinks.”

She frowns. “You’re worried he’ll end your engagement if his mother disapproves?”

“No,” Tauriel smiles faintly. “There is a reason I stayed away for so long… I needed to be sure, that what we felt was real. And it is. And I know that we will face hardships. I have always known that. He is a Dwarf and I am an Elf. He is a prince and I – I would have been nothing, if not for my lord Thranduil’s kindness. My only fear is that he may come to resent me someday, should his mother turn against us.”

There is something lost and lonely in the way that she looks as she reaches up to touch the silver and sapphire beads in her hair. “Every moment is precious, and so – for his sake – I can believe I can endure anything, but not regret. Not from him. That, I could not bear.”

“She won’t turn against you.” She tells her after a moment of thought. “She wouldn’t have her son at all, if not for you.”

“That… that is kind of you to say.”

“It’s the truth.” She insists. Her mother had told her stories about the magic of elves, but nothing could have prepared her for what she saw when Tauriel healed Kíli's leg. She remembers it as if it were yesterday - the Elf had chanted, calling upon something in a language she did not know, and Kíli's had eyes opened and he seemed to come away from the darkness, the sickness passing.  “And for the longest time, I’ve been trying to find a way to thank you, for everything you did for me and my family – “

“It was nothing –”

“It wasn’t nothing, not to me. So if you ever need anything, I will always be here, no matter what it is.”

“A friend,” Tauriel says after a moment. “That is all I need.”

“I think I can do that,” she murmurs.

Tauriel’s lips quirk upward in a small, amused smile and they lapse back into a comfortable silence. She feels herself smile when Tauriel shifts, tucking her feet up underneath her, and settles back against the cushioned back of the armchair. It will be nice, she decides, to no longer be the only outsider, and for there be someone taller than her in the mountain for a change.

 

* * *

 

 

Taking tea with Dís is no less terrifying, the second time around. The prim and proper ladies, the hardened wives of warriors, and the shrewd-eyed scholars still look at her as an anomaly, a curiosity to be poked and prodded. But they treat her with a shred of respect, at least. They look at Tauriel a little differently; most barely bother to hide their suspicion behind polite smiles.

The air is unusually tense, for morning tea and scones.

The Princess’ solar is warm and filled with light, with veins of gold running through the stone walls. She hovers uncertainly by one of the large windows, looking out at the view. From where she is stood, she can see the shimmer of the midday sun on the lake. With winter drawing so near, it won’t be long before the rivers begin to freeze and ice will try to spread its way across the lake. They won’t be able to rely on the lake for fish throughout the coldest months, nor their crops, leaving them to depend upon their stores.

They have enough to get by – but the worry still lingers in the back of her mind.  

Even if the worst happens – if the lake freezes, their stores run out, and there is no game to be hunted – they have, at least, the Dwarves and the Elves to rely upon still. Her marriage and her father’s friendship with the Elvenking solidifies that. They don’t need to worry about starving to death, but that is not the only thing there is to fear. There is always something…

“You seem deep in thought.” Dís says, catching her by surprise when she moves to stand beside her. The Princes’ mother looks as regal as ever, in a dark purple gown, with threads of silver woven in her dark hair and beard. No one could ever look at her and not see someone of noble birth, and yet, she still does not adorn herself in gold and jewels, making her look a little out of place amongst her fellow Dwarves. Not for the first time, Sigrid wonders why. But she lacks the courage to ask. “What troubles you?”

“Nothing, Your Highness.” She answers quietly. “I was merely thinking…”

“A dangerous thing to do.” Dís quips, with a small smile. Her blue eyes are darker than Fíli’s, but the way they crinkle a little around the sides when she smiles reminds her of him. Dís looks past her, staring out of the window with a ghost of a smile lingering on her lips.

“What were you thinking about, if I may ask?”

“I… I was thinking about winter, Your Highness.” She answers after a moment of hesitation.

Dís raises an eyebrow curiously. “What about it?”

“I was just thinking about something Oín told me, he said his portents predict that the snows will fall heavier than last year. The mountain passes will be blocked, and no traders will risk travelling with the roads so dangerous. Here in the mountain, we are safe from whatever comes. But in Dale…” She doesn’t mean to air her worries, especially not now, nor does she expect Dís to smile.

“You are unusually serious, for one so young. But that’s the curse of being the eldest child I suppose, feeling as though you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders… It’s a commendable quality. And not something I ever understood, not until my brother left to chase an impossible dream…” Dís says, and the brief glimmer of weariness in her eyes makes her wonder what might have come of her if the worst happened. If Thorin, and Fíli and Kíli, had died like everyone had expected, what would have happened to Dís?

“My son should consider himself lucky that you are not your father’s heir, if you were, you’d have no sense of humour left at all.” Dís says, and when she stiffens, unsure whether she is being insulted or not, the other woman laughs quietly. “You needn’t be so frightened of me. You’re married to my son; whether I like it or not, there’s nothing I can do now but offer you advice, when I can.”

It takes her a moment to understand just what the Princes’ mother is saying. Dara had warned her that she must learn the art of saying one thing while meaning another, and though she tries, she can’t help but be blunt when she responds.

“You didn’t want me to marry him, did you?” She asks quietly, under her breath so that only Dís can hear her.

“No, I suppose I didn’t.” Dís sighs, and the revelation bothers her more than she thought it would. But she understands. She’d never expected Dís to like her, because someone like Fíli should have married someone grand, someone who was born to be a Princess, and not some lowly bargeman’s daughter, who didn’t even know how to curtsey properly. “Not because of you, though. You seem a lovely girl, and a marriage between our people is beneficial for us both – but for Fíli’s sake, I’d hoped he’d be free to marry who he pleased.”

She tries not to take her words to heart, after all it isn’t her that Dís dislikes. She’s a good mother, wanting love and a happiness for her son. And as it is, their marriage is little more than a contract, an agreement of sorts – a pretty, made-up story to please both their people and ensure their loyalty. It isn’t difficult for her to understand why she was against it.

“Thorin always made Fíli so aware of his duty, making him shoulder so many burdens... I thought my brother was being selfish, taking advantage of Fíli’s selfless nature, by making him do what was best for Erebor, when he carried on with that Hobbit… I did not want Fíli to marry because he felt that it was his duty.” Dís’ expression softens slightly and she gives Fíli’s braid in her hair a gentle tug. “But I was wrong. It may not be what I wanted for him, but he’s happy, and seems to be quite fond of you. I can only hope that I can say the same for the Elf…”

She glances over her shoulder at Tauriel, who stands alone, under the watchful gaze of everyone in the room. She feels a stab of guilt, for leaving her by herself. Dís follows her gaze and leans in, to speak in a quieter tone. “From what I have heard, my son’s intended is very dear to you. If that is true, perhaps you ought to help divert their attention? I believe you promised Lady Orana a song…”

Her reluctance must show on her face, because for a brief instant, Dís smiles.

“Sometimes we have to do these things, whether we like it or not.” She murmurs, and she’s right, of course, so Sigrid nods. Even so, she can’t help but drag her feet a little as she follows Dís to the centre of the room, where the Princess’ harp rests. She stands beside it, wringing her trembling hands. “Lady Sigrid has decided to grace us with a song.” Dís announces, much to her chagrin.

Her voice quivers when she sings, singing the only song that comes to mind. She sings the same song Gared had been whistling the night before; the soft, sad song her mother had sung to them when they were small and fearful of the night. They didn’t have many songs in Lake-town, they had nothing fit for great halls and highborn folk. And if they had, she does not know them.

But she sings about home, and that is enough.

“Oh,” Lady Orana sighs. “What a lovely voice you have, my dear.”

“Such a sad song, did you write it?” The elderly Dwarrowdam, Dagmar asks.

She smiles. “No, ma’am. Tis nothing, just something my mother used to sing to us.”

“You ought to sing at the memorial,” Dagmar suggests.

“Better her than some Elf.” Someone mutters, and with that, everyone’s attention returns to Tauriel. Tauriel shifts uncomfortably, lifting one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her pointed ear. The braids in her hair are supposed to say that she is loved, that she is welcome, and promised to their Prince _–_ and yet, the Dwarves around her look at them only with suspicion and anger.

Sigrid’s gaze flickers to Dís, who frowns slightly.

“If we take tea for much longer, we’ll miss the archery contest.” Dáin’s wife, Ásta announces. “I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short, as lovely it as - Prince Kíli is competing against Prince Legolas and Bard the Dragonslayer, and I’d hate to miss that.” Sigrid doesn’t miss the small conspiratorialsmile she exchanges with Dís, nor the look of relief on Tauriel’s face when there is a murmur of agreement. Her eyes follow the group of Dwarrowdams as they follow Lady Ásta’s lead and file slowly out of the solar.

“Well,” Dís sighs when they are alone, “that went about as well as I expected.”

“Perhaps.” Tauriel shrugs. “I’m almost disappointed. No one threatened me with their axe, like Kíli said they might.”

“As much as they might be tempted, all they can really do is grumble and complain. But it’ll be easier, once you are wed. When they see that you have the support of their king, they will have to learn to keep their displeasure to themselves. They may never accept you, but they will grow used to you, in time.” Dís says, and though Tauriel’s uneasy expression remains, the corners of her lips quirk.

With that, they leave the room. She trails behind them somewhat uncertainly, feeling a strange stirring of envy in the pit of her stomach when she sees how easily conversation flows between Dís and Tauriel.

She finds her gaze drawn to Tauriel’s hair as they walk from the Royal Wing to the gate, at the long braid in her hair and Kíli’s silver and sapphire beads. The same uncomfortable, begrudging feeling churns in her gut when she looks at them. She’s not expected to love Fíli, Dara had said as much – but an empty, loveless marriage was never what she agreed to. Does he smile at her and take her arm because he wishes to, or because he’s expected to? She touches her coat pocket, where the little blue flower sits, and something twists inside of her.

 _This braid shows that I have found my One._ She doesn’t know what a One is, exactly, or what it means, but she does know one thing - she and Fíli don’t wear the same braids in their hair as Kíli and Tauriel. Whatever a One is, neither she nor Fíli have one. Or at least… they don’t braid their hair in a way which tells the world that they do.

Dís’ words swirl throughout her thoughts, refusing to be pushed aside and forgotten. Dís had told her that she’d been wrong, that Fíli seemed happy enough in their marriage – and yet, she can’t help but wonder if perhaps she is the selfish one, for tying him to her for the sake of her people. It had been easier to think of him as a tool to get her and her people what they wanted before she got to know him.

Spotting Dara waiting at the gate, bickering with Glaran – who had been chosen to guard her throughout the festivities, much to Dara’s irritation – shakes her from her thoughts, and she quickly excuses herself with a mumbled apology. She hurries over to the two Dwarves, who cease their bickering when they notice her approaching, but continue to scowl at each other. If they were Bain and Tilda, she might have boxed their ears for it, but instead she merely sighs and shakes her head disapprovingly.

“How did it go?” Dara asks.

“Fine.” She mumbles, distracted.

“Lady Sigrid, is – is everything alright? Was someone unkind to you? Give me the name. A name is all I need. I won’t allow anyone be unkind to you, my lady.” Glaran demands, already reaching for his axe. She can’t help but smile at his sincerity.

“No one was unkind – not to me, at least. I just… I have a lot on my mind.” She fiddles with her ring, a nervous habit of late.

Dara frowns, but doesn’t press her for answers.

“The archery tournament will be starting soon,” Dara says. “We’d better get going or else we’ll be late.”

“I heard that Bard the Dragonslayer is completing – is that true, Lady Sigrid?” Glaran asks.

“Yes, I believe so.” She replies. “He didn’t intend to, said it wouldn’t be good for diplomacy if he beat either one of the Princes. He’s always complaining that he doesn’t get to use his bow as much as he likes, so the opportunity must’ve been too tempting to turn down.”

“Aye, no matter how rusty the sword, and how ever long your axe gathers dust, a warrior never ceases to be a warrior…” Glaran says in a grave tone, then glances at her with a smile. “It sounds much better in Khuzdul.”

“I think he just misses shooting things,” she smiles.

“I guess we’ll have to find another dragon then, to keep him entertained…” Glaran suggests.

The winter sun is low, and the sky is littered with dark clouds promising rain. It won’t be long now, until the days grow shorter and the rain turns to snow. Not long at all… The competitors are already stood in the long, rectangular archery arena when they arrive, and the stands surrounding them are filled with people, cheering and stomping their feet. Dís and Tauriel are sat with Thorin and the Company, and there are a couple of empty seats beside Bain, and Tilda, but for whatever reason, she hesitates.

She half-turns, to ask Dara and Glaran where they’d like to sit, but the two Dwarves are already gone, moving to sit with Bain and Tilda. As if sensing her gaze, Dara – the ridiculous, insufferable creature - glances back and winks.

Her gaze settles on Fíli, sat alone at the foot of the arena.

He doesn’t seem to notice her at first, not until she’s sat down beside him.

“ _Shamukh_ ,” she says, quietly, so only he can hear, and he smiles.

“Hello,” he replies in the same quiet tone. “I was wondering where you were.”

Her eyebrows raise a fraction in surprise. “You were?”

Her gaze shifts to his hair. He’d told her that the braids and the beads in his hair told other Dwarves his place, as a prince and an heir, and a husband as well. She finds herself curious, more so than ever before, but she lacks the courage to ask.

And when he winces, her first thought is a panicked one, thinking that maybe Oín had been mistaken, and Dwalin had done more damage than he’d thought. The wound is bandaged, and there are dark circles under his eyes. And she finds herself leaning forward unconsciously, until her shoulder is pressed against his, and she jerks away when she realises how close they are.

“Does your head hurt?”

“Aye, a little.” He says, and then smiles. “But I couldn’t miss this. Not for the world.”

His smile dims a little when he looks back at her, a furrow forming between his brows. “Are _you_ alright?”

She hesitates before she answers. While it’s tempting to tell him everything, to unburden all her worries onto someone else, this is neither the time nor place. And yet - there’s something very steady about Fíli; something about his presence makes her feel calm. Her head is filled with worries – it always has been, the curse of being the eldest child, as Dís had put it – but her fears grow quieter around him.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Or at least… I am now.”

As Prince of Erebor, Kíli is the first to shoot, and Fíli cheers loudly for his brother. He shoots well – better than she’d expected – and bows dramatically when he’s done, leaving the arena with a mischievous grin. Several other Dwarves follow him, though they fail to hit as many of the targets as him. And with there being so many competitors, her attention wanes a little, until it’s her father’s turn.

She cheers along with the others when he takes his first shot, hitting the mark dead in the centre. He hits the centre of every mark but one, the first to do so, and leaves the arena looking a little too pleased with himself. As she watches him leave the arena, her gaze falls upon Thranduil, half hidden in the shadow of the stands. His eyes are on her father as well, watching him go with an amused expression.

The Elves do well, but none so well as Legolas. The Elven Prince looks like he’s about to win, until he misses the last two shots. He doesn’t look particularly dismayed, in fact, he looks almost pleased with himself, and smiles to himself as her father is named the winner of the competition. She looks back at the marks, at the two shots he’d missed. Both arrows hit just to the left of the bullseye, perfectly, in fact. As if –

“He let him win…” She murmurs, not realising she’s spoken aloud until Fíli raises his eyebrows.

“Why would he do that?” He asks with a bemused smile.

She thinks she understands, when she spots Bain and Tilda hurrying down the stands and into the arena. Tilda – who so proudly named Legolas her champion, and made him wear her favour – all but leaps into their father’s arms, peppering his cheeks with kisses. And as she suspected, Legolas stands aside, watching them with a warm, fond smile spreading across his face.

“Bofur and Nori are leaving today,” Fíli says suddenly, looking over at his uncle. “They’re going to the Shire.”

“But they’ll be travelling through winter…Won’t that be dangerous?”

“Aye, there are some risks. But there’s always risks. If they travel light and on ponies, they should reach Rivendell before the mountain passes are blocked. Kíli and I had hoped to go, but Uncle refused…” He tells her, and she frowns at the thought of him leaving.

“Did… did you want to go?” She asks carefully, not quite able to meet his eye.

“Someone has to keep Kíli out of trouble.” He shrugs, repeating her words from the night before.

She can’t begrudge him for that. She looks down at the arena for a moment, at Bain and Tilda, and understands. She knows what it’s like to be the eldest child, to always be worrying about those who don’t worry enough.

“I hope he comes back,” she says and he hums in agreement. Come spring, the Hobbit will be invaluable; she’ll need his help coaxing her garden back to life. Already, the little signs of life are dying, the cold slowly killing what she and Bilbo had worked so hard to create. The thought reminds her of the flower in her coat pocket, and she reaches for it, carefully drawing it out.

“I’d almost forgotten. Oín gave me this, for safe keeping.” She murmurs, holding out her hand. She uncurls her fingers, and grimaces at the sad, wilted little flower sitting on her palm. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have put it in water or something…”

But Fíli’s smiling at her, a soft, warm look in his lake-water blue eyes. And when he reaches out, gently brushing the tips of his fingers against the crinkled blue petals, she has to look away.

“I was afraid I’d lost it.” He quietly tells her. She tilts her palm, letting the flower fall into his. The corner of his lip twitches, his smile growing amused, and he curls his fingers into his palm. “ _Dôlzekh menu_.”

Understanding, she smiles. “You’re welcome.”

“Sigrid?” She feels her cheeks warm, feeling as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t, and glances at Fíli. Whatever passed between them is gone, and she shifts away from him, turning at the sound of her name being called again. The awkward feeling fades at the sight of Gared stood at the foot of the stands, his hand half-lifted in a wave. She smiles, glad to see him.

“Gared, this is Prince Fíli.” She says, and doesn’t miss the slight twist of Gared’s lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Fíli frown and knows that he saw it too.  “Gared’s an old friend. Gunnar, the stone mason’s son.” She tells Fíli.

“Well met,” Fíli says after a beat. “Your father is a good man.”

Gared just nods, looking like he’s not quite sure what to say, and glances back at her.

“My Da wanted me to ask if you’d join us for supper.”

“Of course,” she answers at once. “I’d love to.”

“I s’pose you’re welcome to join us as well, Prince Fíli. We may live in rubble, but you’ll find no better cook than my mother.” Gared tells them, and the underlying bitterness in his tone is strange and unfamiliar.

“Thank you,” Fíli replies. “It would be a pleasure.”

Gared hides his surprise well. “My father will be to hear it. Sig’ – you know the way, don’t you? The house is just to the left of the north gate, near the old market square. I’ll meet you there, there’s – there’s something I need to take care of first.” 

“Was I wrong to have accepted?” Fíli asks once Gared is gone, noticing her troubled expression.

“No – no, I’m glad you did. I’m just worried about Gared…” She sighs as she gets to her feet, reluctant to talk about it in great detail, not when they’re surrounded by so many listening ears. Fíli follows, remaining close to her as they descend the steps and leave the arena. Though she does not say it, she appreciates his presence; it’s a calming balm amidst all her worries and confusion.

“Please don’t judge him too harshly,” she says once they are alone, walking the road to Dale. She fiddles with a loose thread on her sleeve, anxiously. “He might… he might say things – things he doesn’t mean, about your people – and about your uncle. He was so angry when he left – I don’t know if he still feels that way, but he might… ”

She still remembers it, even though she wishes she didn’t. Gared, Hilda’s niece, two of the Master’s maids, and a few others, who had all lost too much to stay in a place which had seen so much death, had left when so many were still in the healing tents, leaving Dale with only the clothes on their backs and whatever few possessions they managed to save from the fire.

She doesn’t need to close her eyes to picture her father’s face during the battle, when he came to them in the Great Hall. _We’re leaving_ , he’d said with a bloody sword and eyes filled with despair,  _there’s nothing for us here_. She glances at Fíli, wondering how different their lives would have been had she and her family fled that day. She wonders if they might have been like Gared, angry at those who weren’t to blame.

It’s only once they’ve reach Dale that she notices just how long the silence between them has stretched on. And the city is quiet, with most of its residents attending the festivities. The quiet is still unnerving, and she suspects it always will be. It’s easier to forget all the terrible things that happened here when the streets are filled with life and laughter.   

She turns to him when they’re near Gunnar’s house, remembering his injury with a jolt.

“Are you sure about this?” She asks, her eyes flickering to his bandaged wound. She recalls the way he winced earlier and feels a stab of guilt, knowing he’s only here because of her, instead of in the warmth of the mountain, resting. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“It’s fine, Sigrid.” He says, though it does little to set her mind at ease. “Tis but a scratch."

“A scratch? He hit you in the head with an axe!” She explains, incredulous.

He grins. “I’ve had worse.”

“I am aware, yes.” She mutters exasperatedly, but finds herself smiling faintly nonetheless. She tries to be cross with him, for making her worry so, but she can’t, not when he’s grinning at her with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “But if your head starts to hurt and you want to leave - you will tell me, won’t you? Gunnar and Gerda will understand.”

“You’ll be the first to know, _Zabadinhuh_.” He swears, though mischief lingers in his crooked half-smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner is a disaster, as she should have predicted.

Gunnar is kind, as he always is, and Gerda is quiet, as she has been since the battle, a far cry from the warm, cheerful woman she remembers. Their house is small and bare, with half of the roof still being repaired, and she feels Arvid, Randal, and Balder’s absence the moment she steps through the door, and sees it in Gerda’s wistful eyes and in the angry set of Gared’s jaw. 

“The repairs on the northern watchtower are almost complete,” Gunnar announces conversationally, when the silence stretches on a little too long. “I was speaking with a few of the workers, once we’re finished with the tower we thought it might be a good idea to create a replica wind-lance to accompany Lord Bard’s statue. In honour of Lord Girion.”

“A wind-lance?” She repeats as she tears her eyes away from Gared, not quite catching what the man said.

“A fine idea,” Fíli says. “The deeds of both Lord Bard and his ancestor deserve commemorating.”

“Aye, that they do. Too long was Lord Girion’s good name smeared.”

She hums quietly in agreement, remembering how they all used to spit her ancestor’s name. Not even the Dwarves had been above blaming him. _Had the aim of men been true that day, much would have been different._ She’d scoffed at the time, thrusting a blanket into Ori’s arms with a little too much force. _And if not for the greed of Dwarves,_ she’d thought to herself, _everything would be different._

“If Gared stays, I thought he might help. Y’know, learn the craft. There’s always plenty of work around here for a decent stone mason, far more than there is for a farmer – once winter comes, anyway.” Gunnar says, shooting his son a hopeful look.

“I’ll… consider it, Da.” Gared sighs. “But I’m not promising anything.”

Gunnar’s smile falters, and when he glances at his wife, Gerda releases a long-suffering sigh. She has to look away, feeling a sharp stab of remorse when she sees just how different they are from the people she remembers. After her mother died, and while she was too young to look after Bain and Tilda by herself while her father was working, Gunnar and Gerda’s was a second home to them. Being around them, in their warm, and noisy, and at times chaotic home helped ease the pain of her mother’s passing.

As Fíli and Gunnar discuss the memorial, her gaze falls to her supper as she idly dunks a piece of bread into her soup.

“I forgot the wine.” Gerda suddenly says, speaking up for the first time since dinner was served. Sigrid looks up from her soup, and frowns at the woman’s panicked expression. “Oh, what must you think of me? I must have left it in the kitchen...”

“I’ll fetch it.” She offers, rising to her feet before the other woman has a chance to.

She leaves the table, grateful to have a moment to herself. The moment, however, is soon lost when she hears the sound of footsteps behind her. She turns when she reaches the kitchen, expecting it to be Fíli. Her gaze falls upon Gared instead.

“The wine’s in the cupboard,” he tells her as he closes the door behind him. He crosses the small room, opening the cupboard next to the stove. He draws out a dusty bottle of red wine and sets it down on the counter. “Da spent half his wages on this, y’know, just on the off-chance you’d bring your Dwarf with you. Mother was furious, but he didn’t seem to care. Never seen him so excited.”

“He shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble…” She murmurs.

“Why not?” Gared grins. “It’s not often the likes of us dine with royalty.”

She scowls at that, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So,” he says as he leans against the kitchen counter. “ _That’s_ your Dwarf husband? I’m almost disappointed, Sig’. I expected someone shorter and rounder, and with more of a beard. Not quite the brutish, grizzly creature I imagined… I didn’t expect a prince, though. But I s’pose it makes sense, I mean, why else would you marry someone like him?”

“Someone like him?” She repeats uncertainly.

“After what they did…” He mutters, the bitterness seeping back into his voice.

“Oh, Gared.” She sighs wearily, running her fingers through her hair. “I know you’re angry – I’m angry too - but the Dwarves aren’t to blame for what happened. Orcs and a dragon killed your brothers, not them. They’re just as much the victims as we are.”

“Do you really believe that?” Gared frowns, with something almost pitiful in his stare. “When it was them that drew the dragon here in the first place, and them who woke it, and them who the Orcs came to fight. Don’t you see? It was _them._ If not for them, my brothers would still be alive, and we’d still have a home. _Everything_ that happened is because of them.”

“They didn’t mean for that to happen!” She exclaims, her eyes burning with the threat of tears. “Not everything was lost, Gared. You still have your parents. You still have me. And _this_ can be your home, if you just give it a chance.”

“I can’t stay here.” He sighs, picking at his frayed sleeve. “You’d understand, if you saw how much better things are away from here. Where it’s warm and green, and you can hear the birds singin’ in the trees, and you’re not surrounded by death. I wish you could see it, Sig’… Once spring comes, I’m going and I’m taking my mother with me. Da can come if he wants, but I doubt he will…”

She stares at him, uncomprehending. “You can’t leave him. You’re all he has left.”

“I saw my brother die here!” He snaps. “This place… it’s a graveyard. There’s nothing for me here. And you – you could come with me. Just because your Da’s going to be King and you’re married to that Dwarf, doesn’t mean you can’t come with me.”

“I couldn’t leave Bain and Tilda –”

“But they don’t need you anymore, not like they used to. Don’t use them as an excuse.” He cuts in, and though he doesn’t mean it unkindly, it hurts her all the same. “You don’t have to give me your answer now – just… promise me you’ll think about it?”

“I’ll think about it,” she sighs. “I promise.”

“The soup’ll be getting cold.” Gared says, and she leans across the counter to grab the bottle of wine.

She returns to the dining room with Gared following close behind, her eyes still stinging with the promise of tears. As she sets the wine on the table and sits down, the worry she feels must show; Fíli touches her arm under the table, his fingers lightly brushing against the inside of her wrist, with concern etched across his features. It bothers her to see him look so worried. A part of her that she smothers at once wants to reach out and smooth away the furrow between his brows.

Gunnar pours them all a glass of wine, and it’s sharp and bitter, but she makes herself drink it, remembering what Gared told her. Fíli does the same, though she notices him wince when he takes his first sip. Gerda throws it back like it’s water, and pours herself some more.

“You two were gone a long time,” Gunnar says. “Was the wine not in the cupboard?”

“Wasn’t where I thought it would be, Da.” Gared mutters.

“We’re all very excited about the statue.” She tells them, unsure else to say. “It’ll be perfect for the memorial.”

“The memorial will be good for us,” Gunnar says. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Will you please stop talking about the memorial.” Gerda whispers under her breath, shooting Gunnar a pleading look.

“I hope we continue the tradition.” Gunnar continues obliviously. “I’m not saying we build a statue every year, goodness no! We’d run out of room for them all. But I think it’ll be nice if we all come together and celebrated -”

“Our boys are dead,” Gerda cries, slamming her hand down hard on the table. Sigrid jumps and instinctively takes hold of Fíli’s hand. “And all you care about is a statue. Of a man who doesn’t even want it! Isn’t that right, Sigrid? When your father was first approached about the thing, he said no. But we all insisted. Because I guess that’s all that’s important. Not our poor, dead sons. But a statue. A bloody statue.”

“Gerda –” Gunnar begins to say, but the woman shakes her head.

“Don’t. Whatever you’re going to say – I don’t want to hear it. I can’t listen to you talk anymore. You’re always talking, Gunnar. You talk, talk, talk, but never about what’s important.” Gerda snaps as she gets to her feet, steely-eyed and angry. So like Gared. She can do little more than cling onto Fíli’s hand, her eyes following Gerda as she stalks out of the room with Gared hurrying after her.

“I… I’m sorry about that. She’s tired, I’m sure she didn’t…” Gunnar stammers, trying his best to smile.

“Please don’t apologise, your wife is grieving.” Fíli says with a sympathetic smile. “But I believe you are right, the memorial will be good for us all. It’s important for us to remember.”

“That’s kind of you to say. Thank you.” Gunnar says, looking at the empty places at the table with a weary sigh. “’Fraid we might have to cut this evening short. I do hope you’ll come back – both of you. Next time I’ll find better wine.”

She doesn’t know what to say, all she can do is follow Fíli’s lead. She keeps holding onto his hand as Gunnar walks them to the door, the two exchanging formalities. The sun is only just setting when they leave, though she cannot see it behind the thick black clouds filling the sky. She only feels like she can really breathe once they’re outside, with the door closed firmly behind them. She tips her head back, sighing.

“That was… something.” Fíli eventually says, and she releases a shaky laugh.

She can’t find the words to express how grateful she is that he is here with her, that she didn’t have to go through the alone. She does the only thing she can think to do; she crouches a little, making him taller than her for once, and drags him into a hug. She catches him by surprise; it takes a moment before she feels his arms wrap around her in return.

And in that moment, she thinks back on her promise to Gared, and knows her answer.

No, she couldn’t leave. Not just because of Bain and Tilda, but Fíli as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if i was to write a summary of this chapter it would be "three meals: the good, the bad, and the ugly". 
> 
> i didn't really have a specific song in mind that sigrid sings to dis and the others when i first wrote this. but i've been playing a lot of dragon age inquisition and so i kind of imagine that she sang a mix between [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Ja3nxXGqn4) ( _Once we were in our homeland with strength and might, Once we were not afraid of the night_ ) and [song of exile](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--1m-DPfsEc) from the movie King Arthur ( _Land that called us ever homewards, we will go home across the mountains, we will go home)_ , because i always kind of imagined that a lot of the people of lake-town were similar to the people of erebor, wanting to go home and thinking that they never would.
> 
> sorry this is so late, i've got exams coming up so i've been busy, but this chapter is a bit longer than the others, so hopefully that makes up for it. thanks again for all the lovely kudos, bookmarks and reviews. they mean so much <3


	11. Chapter 11

It begins with feverfew.

A funny little plant, pretty, and easy to confuse with a daisy, but with so much more to it than meets the eye.

She spies the plant when she grows tired of the tournaments, slipping away with spend the day with Bain and Tilda instead. She’ll be in trouble later, when Glaran and Dara catch up with them, but in that moment, she can’t bring herself to care. It could be their last sunny day, before winter truly sets in, and she doesn’t want to waste it. Tilda runs ahead of them, with grassy knees and a growing collection of wildflowers clutched to her chest. She glances at Bain and smiles, certain they’re thinking the same thing. Fields and trees and flowers were something they had lacked, growing up on a lake. Visits to the shore and the outskirts of the Greenwood had been few and far between.

She doesn’t let herself think about how many might have died where they stand or that her sister plays on a graveyard.

The yellow floret catches her eye when Bain suddenly pauses, a furrow forming between his brows when he looks at her. It strikes her then how tall he is – her little brother, taller than her now, when had that happened? She doesn’t notice his expression at first, her eyes drawn to the feverfew, hidden away amongst the wildflowers. She crouches, curious, and inspects the leaves.

“Hmm?” She hums, feeling Bain’s hand on her shoulder. She runs the tips of her fingers across the delicate white petals, an idea forming in her mind. When Bain doesn’t respond, she glances up at him. “What is it?” She asks, frowning at the strange, contemplative look on his face.

“Da is going to be King soon,” he begins slowly, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Aye, that’s true. What of it?”

She looks back at the feverfew, her lips twisting in thought. She thinks on their stores, trying to tally the numbers in her head. Food they have, as well as wood and cloth from the Elves, and gold and stone from the Dwarves. But medicine they lack. Nightshade, feverfew, elderflower, kingsfoil… they can never have enough. It plants an idea in her head, one she cannot shake.

“Da will be King and we won’t need the Dwarves anymore.” Bain says, lifting his hand off of her shoulder. “Not like we did before. And I was thinking… if you wanted to come back, and live with us again, they couldn’t say no. Da told me about the contract, and what they made you agree to when you married Prince Fíli. But things are different now, aren’t they? They shouldn’t be allowed to tell you what to do.”

She hums contemplatively. “No, I suppose they shouldn’t.”

“I can talk to them, if they try to stop you. I’ll go to King Thorin if I must.” It’s the second time that someone has made her wonder how her life has changed since marrying Fíli, but it’s different coming from Bain. Her brave little brother – always protecting her –

“Why are you telling me this now?” She wonders. “Has something happened?”

Bain shrugs, avoiding her gaze. “I heard Da talking with King Thranduil. He… he asked him what made a good king, and Thranduil says a good king does what’s best for his people even if he suffers for it. And that’s what you did, isn’t it? You married Fíli for us.”

“It was always going to happen.” She answers after a moment of thought, gathering a little bundle of the feverfew plant as she speaks. She doesn’t let her thoughts linger on Fíli for long, avoiding the flood of embarrassment which follows thinking about the night before. It was just a hug, and yet… And yet it wasn’t. “Once Da becomes King, people will seek to benefit from his position, and it wouldn’t have been long before he was approached with offers of marriage. It’s just how things are – but I was fortunate, at least; I didn’t get sent away to who-knows-where, to marry a stranger.”

She smiles in what she hopes is a comforting manner, when Bain’s uncertain look remains, and reaches out to squeeze his hand. “You don’t need to worry about me, I’m sure they won’t object to me spending more time with my family. I’ve done everything they’ve asked of me. And if they do object – well, I suppose that’s a matter they’ll have to take up with the King of Dale, isn’t it?”

Bain, still looking unconvinced, shrugs and glances at Tilda. Tilda, oblivious, runs ahead of them.

“I can’t believe Da’s going to be King. Did you ever imagine that that might happen?” Bain quietly says, his gaze flickering to her for a moment. When she shakes her head, he smiles faintly, and looks back at Tilda. “I did once; when the people were starving and the Master had that great bloody statue of himself built, Da started setting aside whatever coin we could spare to help those who needed it. And I thought… I thought if the world was fair, and if anyone should rule, it was Da. But back then, that was just a dream… I never thought…” 

For a moment, she almost doesn’t know what to say, but then Bain smiles. “I s’pose I got my dream, as hard earned as it was.”

“Hard earned, indeed.” She agrees, with a backward glance to the mountain.

Bain’s gaze shifts, to the flowers in her hands. “Feverfew,” she explains when his eyebrows lift curiously. “I thought it might be a good idea to collect some, to add to our stores. Winter is coming, and all the plants will be dead soon. So it doesn’t hurt to be prepared…”

“Aye, it can’t hurt.” Bain says as he crouches beside her, his head tilted a little to the side. In silence, he helps her gather more of the plant, until his coat pockets are full, knowing just as well as she does the price of being underprepared.

“I’m glad it didn’t change her," Bain murmurs later, as they watch Tilda gather more flowers to her collection. Sigrid finds herself smiling; she wishes that all could be as joyful as her sister. The worries that plague her and Bain have no place in Tilda’s merry little world. “With everything that happened… I was afraid it might. But maybe she’s too young, just like… just like when Mother died. I envy her for that…”

“So do I.” She admits, carefully brushing the tips of her fingers across the feverfew’s soft white petals. She wants to feel _useful,_ like she once did, in both her home and later, even just for a brief time, in the healing tents. And she feels something – an emotion she cannot decipher – at the sight of the flower. As though it’s the key to the sense of purpose she’s been struggling to find. She glances back at the mountain, lips twisting in thought.

“Sigrid! Look what I found!” Tilda calls from ahead of them, drawing both of their attention.

“We should get back, looks like it might rain.” Bain says as Tilda hurries towards them, looking up at the darkening sky.

The large bundle of wildflowers clasped between Tilda’s gloved hands makes her smile, and when Tilda stops in front of her, rosy-cheeked and proud, she doesn’t hesitate to inspect her findings. The flowers are all very pretty and colourful, though she doesn’t know half of their names. The sight of a white forget-me-not inspires a strange reaction in her; something odd stirs in the pit of her stomach.

The forget-me-nots are nestled amongst cornflowers and an interesting looking plant, with leaves similar to mint, only larger and more jagged. As she reaches for the little white flower, her forearm and the inside of her wrist brushes against the leaves of the mint-like plant.

She draws her hand back with a cry, tears springing to her eyes. Tilda nearly drops her armful of flowers in surprise, as Sigrid leaps away from her, clutching her arm to her chest. The pain is sharp at first, but then it _burns_. And that is somehow so much worse. It stings and burns and itches something fierce, and she might’ve sworn and cursed if not for Tilda stood in front of her, with wide, worried eyes.  

“It’s fine,” she grits out through clenched teeth. “Must’ve scratched myself on a thorn.”

She draws her arm away from her chest, digging her nails into her palm to stop herself from scratching. An angry red rash spreads along her arm and across her wrist and palm, with nasty looking bumps. _Stinging nettle,_ she groans internally. The blasted weed! She’d never come across it before, but Bilbo had warned her about it and told her how to dispose of it, should it appear in her garden. _Always with gloves,_ the Hobbit had said – _and for good reason_ , she thinks despairingly as the stinging somehow seems to grow worse with time.

“I’m sorry, Sigrid!” Tilda cries. “Oh, I’m so, so sorry! I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know -”

“It’s alright, I think it’s just stinging nettle – make sure you don’t touch it without your gloves on.” She says, and looks over at Bain, who hovers uncertainly by her side. “Why don’t you take Tilda back to Dale? I can meet you there later, once I’ve had this seen to.”

Bain frowns. “No, we’re not leaving you, not when you’re hurt.”

“Really, it’s nothing – it barely hurts anymore. Go ahead without me.” She says as she tucks the feverfew she’d gathered into the inside of her coat. But Bain shakes his head, his jaw set in a way which tells her he’s not going to budge. She sighs resignedly, nods, and is unable to stop herself from scratching the rash as the three of them turn and head back, towards the mountain. Tilda pressing her face into her side, murmuring apologies, and Sigrid quietly hushes her and wraps her good arm around Tilda’s shoulders.

And as Bain predicted, because luck hasn’t favoured them today, it begins to rain.

The first drops of rain splash down onto them as they pass the tournament grounds, the wrestling completion still going strong. By the time they reach the mountain, the rain is coming down in torrents from the thick, dark clouds filling the sky. They hurry through the gates, soaked to the bone, and she can’t help but laugh when she looks over at Bain, as he shakes the water from his hair like a dog.

It doesn’t take them long to reach the healing wing, tucked away in a quieter part of the mountain. They’ve been fortunate; they haven’t had much of a need for healers since the battle, giving them time to set up a proper establishment for themselves. They find Oín sat alone, snoring at his desk, with his crushed ear trumpet nowhere to be seen. It takes Bain, giving his shoulder a firm shake, to wake him.

“What?” The Dwarf shouts as he lifts his head, spluttering indignantly. “Is that the Bowman’s wee ones? Well, what is it? What do you want?” He grumbles as he rubs his eyes, blindly feeling around the desk for his ear trumpet. Tilda finds it tucked under a scroll and hands it to him.

“Do you have anything to treat stinging nettle?” She asks, and the Dwarf blinks at her.

“Eh? Stinging metal? Did someone get you with a poisoned blade, lass?”

“ _Stinging nettle.”_ She repeats, when the Dwarf starts muttering about antidotes to poison. He doesn’t seem to hear her, so she thrusts out her arm, showing him. The bumps look quite nasty now, and she winces when he pokes at one of them.

“Oh aye, nettle, that’ll be it. Hold on just a jiffy, I’ve got something for it.” Oín says and turns away, opening one of the many draws of his desk. She leans over the desk, curious, and watches as he rummages through vials and poultices. “Ah, this’ll be it.” He mutters and sets a large green vial down on the desk. “Here, give me your arm, lass. Crushed dockleaf’ll help just nicely. One of the lads prepared it just this morning.”

She winces when he first rubs some of the green poultice onto her arm, but after that – the stinging and the pain is gone almost immediately. She releases the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding and smiles when she glances over at Bain and Tilda. When he’s finished, and wrapping a soft bandage around her arm just to be safe, she can’t help but hug the old, grumbling Dwarf.

“There’s no need for that, lass.” Oín splutters, but pats her back after a moment. “It’s just a simple remedy, I’m surprised you didn’t know it yourself. Now, you’d be best getting in front of a fire before you catch a chill.”

She hesitates, feeling the feverfew in her pocket. _A purpose,_ yes, that’s what she’d been looking for. “Could… could you teach me? I learned some things when I helped in the healing tents, so I’m not entirely useless, and I promise I wouldn’t get in your way. I just thought it might be a good idea, knowing a few things – remedies that might come in handy, and what plants can be used for what…”

Oín looks at her for a moment, one bushy eyebrow raised.

“I don’t see why not,” he answers after a moment, and it takes all of her willpower not to hug him again. He glances around them when a female Dwarf steps into the room, carrying two wicker baskets filled with herbs. “Rúna, would you do me a favour and take the wee Bardlings to the kitchens? Get Bombur to fix them something nice to eat and find somethin’ dry for them to wear.”

“Of course.” Rúna says, setting the baskets down with a smile. She looks younger than most Dwarves, with only a hint of a stubble around her jawline, and her smaller stature reminds her a little of Ori.  “Anything else, Master Oín?”

“Aye,” Oín adds gruffly. “If you happen to see the Prince, point him in their direction.”

Rúna’s gaze shifts to Sigrid for a fleeting moment, and she smiles.

“I’ll see yeh here tomorrow, Lady Sigrid, nice and early. Don’t keep me waiting.” Oín calls after them, as Rúna waves her hands and clicks her tongue, herding her and her siblings out of the room like a flock of sheep. Tilda grabs hold of her good arm at once, latching onto it tightly and pressing her side into her side, while Bain looks over his shoulder at Rúna with a raised brow.

“‘Bardlings’?” He asks, and Rúna chuckles quietly.

“Do you not know, your Highness? It’s something some folk ‘round here like to call you three. You just look so sweet, trailing after your Pa like little lost ducklings.” Rúna tells him, with a teasing curve to her smile, and Sigrid can’t help but laugh at Bain’s affronted look.

“We don’t look like ducklings!” Bain protests, which only seems to amuse Rúna even more.

“Are you a healer, like Oín?” Sigrid asks, steering the conversation in a different – more polite – direction.

“Someday, I hope to be.” Rúna answers with a smile. “But for now, I am just an apprentice. Just like you, it seems. It’ll be nice, having someone else for Oín to bark at. Ah – here we are. Bombur will take care of you, while I go hunt down that Prince of yours.”

Rúna leaves them in the kitchens, departing with a wink in Bain’s direction. Her brother – too busy scowling – doesn’t notice, and Tilda presses her face back into her side to hide her giggles. The kitchens are warm, noisy, and bigger than their house in Laketown had been. It’s always a little chaotic, but she likes Bombur, and smiles at the large Dwarf when he waves them over to one of the roaring fireplaces.

Bombur – a Dwarf of few words – hastily shoves scones and little cakes into their hands the moment they sit down in front of the fire, before he disappears, muttering something about finding them some blankets.  

“It’s nice here, but you should come home for dinner more. And more than just once a week!” Tilda says in between bites of her scone. She glances at Bain, but he just shrugs, smiling innocently. “Da doesn’t hum when he cooks like you do. He makes dogs _howl_ when he sings.”

“Tilda, don’t be unkind. That isn’t true.” She chides, ducking her head to hide her smile.

“It’s not the same, when you’re not there.” Tilda mumbles, looking at her with those big, doe eyes. Sigrid sighs, knowing when she’s beaten. Who could deny that face anything? “If it’s so important you’re kept together, can’t Prince Fíli come stay with us?”

“It’s not so simple…” She argues weakly, avoiding Tilda’s gaze.

Tilda frowns. “But you moved here for him. Why can’t he do the same for you?”

It’s at that moment that Bombur reappears, walking into the kitchens with an armful of blankets, and she quickly presses her finger to her lips before Tilda can say anymore. Bain shoots her a meaningful look and she nods, knowing the conversation isn’t over.

“I’ll think about it.” She murmurs under her breath, before she takes a blanket from Bombur, thanking the Dwarf, and wraps it around both her and Tilda’s shoulders. Tilda hums happily and leans into her side. Her hair is damp and cold against her collarbone, and her elbow digs into her ribs uncomfortably, but she doesn’t care. Sigrid rests her cheek against the top of Tilda’s head and smiles.

She doesn’t know how long they sit there, contently in front of the fire, before the back of her neck itches, as if under someone’s gaze. She looks back, but there’s no one there, only the sound of footsteps walking away.

 

* * *

 

The nightmares – inevitably - come back in the days leading up to the memorial.

In her dreams, there are so many burnt faces. So many bodies. She’s stood at the lake’s edge again, watching people dragging the wounded and whatever possessions they have out of the water. These are people she has known all her life and yet… there is nothing familiar about any of them. All she knows is that they’re all scared and desperate, just like her. Everyone around her is screaming and crying out for help…

 _“You are not alone.”_ Fíli promises her, her blue scarf still looped around his neck. She wants to cling to him, the way she does with Tilda, but she can’t, just like that day, even in her dream, her feet are rooted to the spot. She has to watch him leave, knowing there’s nothing she can do to stop him. “ _Whatever gold is in that mountain, some of it belongs to you and your people. You do not need to be afraid.”_

But she is afraid. She clings onto Tilda, eyes burning with tears as she watches the Dwarves’ boat grow further and further away, knowing it won’t be long before Tauriel leaves them too. _You’ve got to be strong now,_ her Da would tell her, _look after your sister._ In her heart, she holds onto the hope that her father and brother are alive – but everything around them, all the chaos and ruin, tells her that they’re not, that she’s never going to see them again… And in the face of such hopelessness, she doesn’t know how to be strong.

And then the dream changes, somehow growing worse.

 _“I say we stand with our men in life and in death.”_ It’s this moment that haunts her the most. Fire and death have a fixed place in nightmares, but this moment follows her wherever she goes. She wants to be brave, brave like her father and her brother; she wants to pick up a sword and protect her sister, but she’s afraid. She’s never been so afraid, never felt so helpless. All she can do is watch the others as they storm out of the hall, her feet rooted firmly to the ground. And when Bain picks up his sword, she reaches out to stop him.

_“Da said we mustn’t leave. He said to barricade the door, not to come out –”_

_“I can fight! I can protect you!”_

She wakes with a start. She sits up, legs tangled in the sheets, gasping for breath. They’ve been growing worse – growing stronger – and occupy her thoughts even in the day. It’s easier when she’s busy, when she’s helping in healing wing or tallying numbers for her father or learning courtly etiquette from Dara. But she can still smell it – the blood and the smoke and the stench of the dead – and her hands shake. A week of sleepless nights has started to take its toll, she can’t fight the bad memories like she usually can.

It’s difficult to avoid her fears when they stare her in the face every day. There may not be any Orcs or dragons hiding under her bed, but there is what’s left of them. She sees the monsters in people like Gared and Gerda, who she fears will never be the same.

She drags her fingers through her rumpled hair, taking a deep breath. The lake, she decides. Seeing it again helped her once, so surely, it can help her again. She pushes back the covers, ignoring the way her hands still tremble when she gets out of bed. It’s still dark when she pushes the curtains open, dawn an hour or so away. But it doesn’t matter. It just means she’ll get to see the sunrise again.

It’s hard to dress, with her hands trembling so. And lacking the patience to bother with the strings of her bodice, she drags on a long tunic and woolly breeches. It’s a long walk to the lake, and it’ll be easier without the added hassle of heavy skirts hindering her movements. As she fumbles with her gloves, she tells herself that it will do her good to see the lake again, that it’ll help like it did the last time.

The hearth in her sitting room has long since burned out, and the room is cold when she trudges through it in search for her coat. In the dark, she stumbles into one the armchairs and topples to the ground, releasing a strangled noise of surprise.

The door to Fíli’s chambers flies open a moment later.

And when he bursts into her room, sword in hand, she’s half-convinced she’s still dreaming.

She stares at him, trying to decide if she’s imagining him or not – and half-wondering why she is even dreaming about him at all. He’s dressed and armed to the teeth, but his hair is still rumpled from sleep, and his moustache is missing its beads. His long hair is pulled back, away from his face, and she can see that the knock to the head from the blunt end of Dwalin’s axe is little more than a cut and a few bruises now.

His eyes flicker around the room, as if searching for danger, before they settle on her. He crosses the room in three long strides and gently, hesitantly, helps her to her feet. She feels a heaviness pressing down on her chest when she looks at him, for in that moment she wishes he could help, but knows there’s nothing he can do.

“I heard a noise,” she realises he’s saying. “Forgive me, I should have knocked. But I thought -”

“It’s fine,” she cuts in with a weary sigh. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Don’t be, I was already awake.” He says softly, and frowns slightly when he glances down at her hand, as if only just realising he’s holding it. He ducks his head, but not in time to hide the faint flush spreading across his cheeks, and it makes her realise just how close they’re stood together, here in her chambers, alone, and in the middle of the night. She shifts away, tugging her hand free so she can grab her coat from where it’s folded over the back of one of the armchairs. She pulls it on, avoiding his gaze.

He smiles slightly, hesitantly. “Are you going somewhere?”

“I need some air,” she mumbles. She glances at him, hoping that it’ll be enough and that he will leave her be, but he stays where he is, looking at her in a way which makes it impossible to lie to him. What had he said once? _You’re my wife now. I don’t like the thought of keeping secrets from you_. She supposes it’s only fair, that it goes both ways. “I had a bad dream. I… I’m going to go to the lake, it helped last time…”

“Give me a moment, and I will come with you.” Fíli says.

“No, I’d… I’d prefer to be alone.” She admits, fiddling with the buttons of her coat. “I’m sorry…”

“I know, but it’s not safe for you to be out there alone.” He gently presses, looking apologetic. “You don’t have to talk to me. I… I can follow at a distance, if you like. Please, just so I know you’ll be safe. If anything happened to you…”

“Allow me this.” He insists, the look in his eyes unbearably kind. She has to look away, not entirely sure she’s deserving of it. Her chest feels impossibly tight, like some great weight is pressing down on it. Her eyes burn with the promise of tears as she looks down at her feet, at her weathered boots, and she startles at the feel of Fíli’s calloused fingertips brushing against the inside of her wrist. “Please, Sigrid.”

“Alright.” She sighs, before she draws her hand away. She stuffs her hands into her coat pockets and finds herself walking to the door, mechanically following her feet as she makes her way through the mountain. Fíli remains behind her, silently following at a distance, but she can feel his gaze on her, making the back of her neck prickle. She resists the urge to look back at him, keeping her gaze fixed ahead.

Someone calls out to them when they reach the gates, but doesn’t try to stop them once Fíli calls something in Khuzdul back to him. Another guard frowns when he glances between her and Fíli, but says nothing. The gates open, and they leave, undisturbed.

It’s cold – colder than she’d expected, and she shivers as the wind whips through her hair. The stars shine in a cloudless sky, with only the first hint of light breaching the horizon. And only few lone braziers are lit along Dale’s outer walls, like fireflies in the night. It’s peaceful, the quiet feels safe. There are no mournful eyes staring back at her, no widows dressed in black, no Dwarves watching her with judgement eyes, no strangers wearing the faces of friends…

There’s only the sound of Fíli’s boots behind her, reminding her that she’s not alone.

It’s so much colder than before, it takes her by surprise. Winter won’t be long now. It reminds her of the long, slow walk to Dale after the destruction of Laketown. She’d walked at the front of the procession, behind her father and with Bain and Tilda following close behind her. Bain hadn’t said a word, but his hands hadn’t stopped shaking. And Tilda had clutched onto her doll the entire time, the soft one with the missing eye…  

It’s a long walk, and eventually she slows, so that Fíli catches up to her.

“What did you say to him? That guard?” She asks once he catches up to her. “Did… did you tell him?”

“I told him I was taking you home.” He says, as if it’s so simple.

She keeps walking.  Just one foot in front of the other, that’s all it is. Except –

It’s only when she pauses that she sees just how far they’ve gone. Dale and the mountain are long behind them. They’re past the fields and near the overlook, and she can see the lake from where she’s stood. The water is like a mirror, reflecting the night sky. It’s beautiful – and from far away, she can’t see Laketown. She can’t see what’s left. It’s a view she’s never really seen before. The stars were never so bright, diminished as they had been by lights of Laketown. And now during the day, the ruins are all she can see. 

If she keeps walking, the view will be lost. The sun will rise and she will see all that’s left of her old home. It helped before… but that’s not what she wants, not today. She lets herself believe that if they stay here, the moment will last. And so she sits, the grass damp and cold even through her coat. She hugs her knees to her chest and feels the sudden lump in her throat grow worse when Fíli sits beside her, without a word.

“How’s your arm?” He asks after some time, breaking the silence.

She blinks, the question catching her off-guard.

“Oh,” she realises after a beat. She pushes up the sleeve of her coat, where the rash from the stinging nettle is barely visible. The dockleaf had worked like a charm. “It’s fine. It was nothing, really. Just a bit of stinging nettle. How -?”

“How did I know?” He ventures a guess, and she nods. “One of Oín’s apprentices told me. Rúna, I think she’s called. Accidentally burst in on a council meeting. And then Bombur hit me with one of those big spoons for not coming to see you.”

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of her lips. “He hit you with a spoon?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “I deserved it though, I should have come see you.”

“So why didn’t you?” She wonders, doing her best to seem uninterested by fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve.

“I did, in a way.” He admits, the usually unflappable Dwarf looking somewhat flustered as he rubs the back of his neck. “I came looking for you - but then I saw you with Bain and Tilda, and well, I didn’t want to intrude.”

“You… you wouldn’t… it wouldn’t have been intruding.” She says, stealing a glance at him out the corner of her eye.

He glances at her as well, and his eyebrows raise a fraction. “No?”

She shakes her head and for the briefest moment, when he smiles, the ache in her chest doesn’t seem so bad. It’s something she has only ever felt with her family. But it isn’t the first time, she realises. It’s what she felt when she hugged him after the disastrous dinner at Gerda and Gunnar’s. She frowns, uncertain, and rubs where it hurts, just below her collarbone.

“You said you went to the lake once before… When was that?”

“Before Durin’s day.” She answers quietly, her gaze shifting to the lake. “Seeing it again helped. It helped me realise how things have changed. And I thought it might help again, but… but I don’t want to see the ruins today. I don’t want to see what’s left…”

“You walked all the way to the lake? Alone?” He asks, and when she nods, he frowns. “If you ever want to come back, will you tell me first? If not me, at least your father. You never know what might happen, it’s too dangerous out here for someone to be alone and unarmed.”

She can only nod, unsure what else to say or do. She looks away from him, and her thoughts shift, to that moment by the lake. Her tattered blue scarf around his neck, Kíli pressing a stone into Tauriel’s hand, the boat rowing further and further away… _You do not need to be afraid._ She hadn’t thought she’d see him again. She wonders if he still has her scarf…

“What was your bad dream about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She hesitates for a moment before answering. “Just… bad memories.”

The sun is just beginning to crest the horizon, washing the sky in pale, grey light. It won’t be long now. The sun will rise and they’ll have to go back. To the mountain, to Dale, to the memorial… and all the things she can’t bear to face. She groans, lifting her hands to rub her temples.

She’s proud of her father and her people, and all that they’ve accomplished. Dale isn’t the cold, empty place it once was. All that they hoped for may one day come true. And the memorial will be good for them. It’ll help them all see how far they’ve come. And yet, for herself, she isn’t so certain. She cannot sing, and smile, and pretend – not today, at least. She lacks the strength, if she ever had any at all.

“Does it ever get easier?” She finds herself asking him, hating how pitifully small her voice sounds. She glances at him, blinking against the threat of tears. “In the battle, all I did was run and hide – but I can’t forget it. And _you_ – you almost died. _Should_ have died. Your wounds… they said you wouldn’t recover. How do you come back from that? I can’t forget, every night… every night I see it…”

Fíli smiles faintly, sadly. “It gets easier. With time.”

“I really hope that’s true.” She sighs, and finds herself leaning a little into his side. She remembers the healing tents - Fíli and Kíli lying side by side, their beds pushed together, faces pale with all the blood they’d lost, covered head to toe in bandages… She shivers, from more than just the cold, and Fíli shifts, slowly, hesitantly, wrapping his arm around her. She stills, just for a moment, in surprise, before she sighs.

“I don’t know if I can go to the memorial,” she murmurs. “All those people…”

Too many people, too many to even list at the memorial. Most bodies weren’t recovered from the burning ruins of Laketown, and after the battle, there were too many to bury. The Dwarves had built the pyres, for Men, Dwarves, and Elves, and the Orcs and goblins were thrown onto a pile and burned. And the smell… she still remembers the smell, as much as she tries to forget.

“You don’t have to go, not if you don’t want to.” He tells her, his hand warm and heavy on her shoulder as he draws her just that little bit closer. “I could stay with you.” He adds, so quietly she almost doesn’t hear him. She glances across at him, her eyes stinging with tears.

“You would? But…” She stops, understanding dawning on her. He feels sorry for her. His kindness is born out of pity. That, or he imagines it’s somehow his duty. She isn’t certain what’s worse. She ducks her head, letting her hair fall around her face to hide her tears. “I’m sorry.” She says with a short, shaky laugh. “Stupid of me, really. For making you come here, for saying these things –”

“You didn’t make me do anything.” He insists, and for the briefest moment, he looks almost angry at her. But then he reaches out, his expression softening as he brushes a long strand of hair away from her face. It’s his kindness, in the end, that breaks her fragile hold on her emotions. One simple touch, and she crumples into herself, quiet sobs ripping through her chest.

Fíli’s saying something, but she can’t hear him. She can only feel him as he gathers her to him, with one hand at the back of her head, and the other at the small of her back, rubbing soothing circles. Her cheek presses into his shoulder, the soft fur of his coat growing wet with her tears. It’s in this moment that she wonders if Gared’s right – and almost considers the idea of leaving. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t, could she?

He quietly holds her until her sobs eventually subside, having given up on words. She rests her head against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat soothing the storm inside of her. And so lightly, she could almost pretend she’s imagining it, she feels his lips brush against the crown of her head.

It’s tempting, the thought of clinging to him, in the warm safety of strong arms -

She draws away, releasing a breath she pretends isn’t as shaky as it is.

“We should get back.” She tells him, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Someone will notice –”

“You don’t always have to be so strong,” he says, catching her by surprise. She looks at him, her resolve already threatening to waver. His expression is so open, so sincere. Not for the first time, she wonders if she’d misjudged this strange, yet unfailingly kind Dwarf. She feels a stab of guilt, knowing she had. “I mean… We’re… we’re friends, aren’t we? So you don’t need to pretend. Not around me.”

“Thank you,” she mumbles. She doesn’t know what to say, but words have never truly been her strong point. She’s never really had a friend before. She’s never really had anyone beside her family and Gared. It was difficult, after all, to make friends when they were most likely spies working for the Master. She musters up a smile and squeezes his hand, hoping it’s enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -hides- 
> 
> i am so sorry it's taken me so long to update. it's been crazy busy on my end, with christmas and travelling and moving house. i should hopefully get the next chapter up in a couple of days, this one was getting a little long so i decided to cut it in two :)
> 
> hope you all had a lovely christmas, new year, etc <3


	12. Chapter 12

He doesn’t let go of her hand.

The sun slowly creeps above the horizon, gradually filling the cloudless sky with light. The stars and the moon are chased away by the rising sun, spreading rays of golden light across the sky. The sunrise is beautiful, but the ruins of Laketown are a sad and lonely blight upon the lake. She turns away, not wanting to see all that is left of her home, and stands. Fíli follows, shaking the morning dew from his long coat.

They begin the long walk back to the mountain –

And he doesn’t let go of her hand.

She looks at him, not knowing quite what to think. She doesn’t understand him. No one else would have done this – sit out in the cold, at the crack of dawn – for someone they barely know. He might have called them friends, but he doesn’t know her. And she doesn’t know him. Not truly. Not in the way it counts. She knows that he is kind, and brave, and a fighter. But she doesn’t know any of the little things, like why he was awake so early, why he fights with two swords instead of one, or how he takes his tea, whether he likes parsnips or potatoes more…

A puzzle for another time, she decides. They have time, at least, to learn these things about each other.

She just doesn’t know where to begin. She had always assumed she would know and love the person she married, if she ever married at all. But then again, she’d always assumed her father would stay a bargeman and they’d live on the lake until the day they died. She never could have expected a company of thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit to climb out of her toilet and change everything.

The thought makes her look back. She glances over her shoulder, wide eyes seeking out the lake. She squints against the lingering darkness, but they’ve come too far for it to be visible. In a way, she’s almost glad. Seeing it would do her no good. So she forces her gaze ahead, rubbing the ache beneath her collarbone absentmindedly.

The walk back to the mountain is… strange. The pain is still there, but it’s different. It isn’t so overwhelming. The panic, which drove her from her bed at such an ungodly hour, isn’t there anymore. It wasn’t the view or the lake that made it go away – it was him. It’s different this time because of him. The realisation hits her hard and she looks down at their joined hands, her lips twisting in thought.

“Fíli -” She begins, but she doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s alright,” he says. He glances at her and the corner of his lip twitches. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“No, that’s not - that’s not what I was going to say.” She frowns, sneaking a glance at him as she struggles to find the right words. “I wanted – what I mean to say is, I wanted to say –” She takes in his profile, his short beard, long, braided moustache, and the curve of his lips, and decides against stumbling her way through her words. Instead, she asks, “Why isn’t your beard as long as other Dwarves?”

He pauses for a moment, and then lets out a bark of laughter.

“Be kind. Most of them have had a good hundred or so years to grow theirs, and I’ve only had a decade.” he tells her. He looks her, fighting a grin as he tries to look offended. “Remember that we Dwarves age differently to you. We reach maturity at around fifty, but the beard doesn’t really start coming in until you’re about sixty. And I don’t suppose it helped that Kíli and I were both late bloomers...”

She smiles a little, at his self-deprecating grin.

“So how long would it take for you to grow a beard like Balin’s?” She wonders, curious.

He frowns a little in thought. “A few decades, I’d say. If I’m lucky.”

When they slip back into a comfortable silence, she looks ahead. They’re nearing the furthermost fields now. And she has a choice to make, she realises. She can either go back to the mountain with Fíli or she can go to Dale, to the memorial and her family. It’s her choice to make, one she knows she has to make for herself. She glances at Fíli, uncertain, and chews her lower lip in thought.

“There is… actually something I need to talk to you about, but I’m not sure where to start.”

He glances at her and grins. “And it’s not beard related, I take it?”

“Not quite.” She says, smiling, in spite of everything. Her gaze flickers wonderingly between Dale and the pale outline of the mountain, her brief smile slipping away. It can’t be one or another, or as simple as _her people_ or _his._ They were married for a reason. If they had wanted Fíli to marry a Dwarf, he would have married one. And she is not a Dwarf, and never will be, no matter how hard Dara or anyone else might try.

“I – I don’t think I can keep living in the mountain. I need to see my family for more than just an hour or so a day, Fíli. I _miss_ them.” She tells him, wincing at her unintentional bluntness. Fíli looks across her at, one brow lifted. She can’t quite read the look on his face, so she squeezes his hand and explains, in a gentler tone. “If someone tried to keep you and Kíli apart, you’d do anything to stop them, wouldn’t you? If it had been the other way around – if living in Dale had been part of the arrangement – would you – would you -”

“I don’t know.” Fíli admits, his gaze falling to his feet. “But I will, if I must.”

It takes her a moment for his words to sink in. She stops walking. “No, I couldn’t ask that of you…”

“Why not?” He says with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “You had to do it for me.”

And then he smiles, like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing. She’d held him at arm’s length for months, misjudged him again and again, and yet he’s kind. He’s far kinder to her than she deserves. She’d expected a fight, she had thought she’d have to convince him to see her side of things, but she was wrong. She can see nothing but understanding in his eyes. She takes a step towards him, determined not to stumble her way through another apology, but then he frowns and turns away from her abruptly.

“Did you hear that?” He whispers. His gaze flickers back to her and she shakes her head, not hearing anything.  His eyes narrow and suddenly, he gives her hand a forceful tug, sending her stumbling into his back. She braces herself against his tense shoulders, and when she starts to speak, he holds up his hand. He shushes her quietly, his eyes trained ahead. “Listen. Can you hear it?”

The only thing she can hear is her heart, hammering wildly in her chest. She’s sure he can hear it too. She tries to move away, overly conscious of how she is pressed against the strong planes of his back, but his grip on her hand is firm, holding her in place.

“I don’t hear anything,” she whispers back. But then she does, she hears it –

A strange sound. Strange, but familiar. She strains her ears, hearing low grunts and growls. Sharp angry voices. Then she hears a squeal, like the desperate cry of a dying animal, that’s followed by laughter. She stumbles back a step, her heart thudding wildly in her ears.

“Orcs.” Fíli mutters, confirming her worst fears. She shakes her head frantically, willing it not to be true, and he takes her hand again, silently urging her to follow as he ducks low and creeps slowly forward. They carefully make their way down the hill, staying close, sticking to the long shadows cast by the Overlook. Looking around, she realises they’re near the east river, close to the southmost field… Where the fence was broken. A shiver runs through her, remembering the missing cows and the splintered wood and cut barbed wire.

When they crouch down behind a tree and thicker cluster of bushes, she can see them. There are three of them, all hunched around the dead carcass of a cow, tearing out the innards to eat. They’re just as hideous and terrifying as she remembers.

“Scavengers,” Fíli mutters. “Must be leftovers from the battle…”

“After all this time? What are they still doing here?” She whispers back, a shiver running down her spine. Something cold clutches her heart, as she imagines the very worst. Her nightmares pale in comparison to this. “Have they come back to kill us?”

“No, I don’t think so.” He tells her, eyes narrowing in thought as he watches the Orcs. “Deserters, I’d wager. Too cowardly to go back to whatever pit they came from. I’ve seen them before, in the wilds. They go after farmers, small villages, unguarded caravans… Used to get paid to hunt them down. They must be desperate, to stay so close to the mountain.”

Very slowly, Fíli rises up and draws his sword.

“I need you to stay here.” He says, his eyes never leaving the Orcs. “Can you do that for me? Stay low and out of sight.”

It’s too much – too familiar. It reminds her too much of the battle, and of being left behind in the Hall and counting the minutes until either her father returned or Orcs broke down the doors and killed them all. Too many people have run off to face Orcs and never returned.

“Don’t.” She mumbles weakly, but he doesn’t seem to hear her. “Please don’t –”

“I’ve got this.” He mutters, only just loud enough for her to hear.

“No!” She cries in a barely contained whisper. Not knowing what else to do, she latches onto his arm and drags him back down. She catches him by surprise and they topple to the ground in a heap, Fíli landing heavily on her. He lifts his head, meeting her gaze, and for a moment, they’re both still and unmoving. His armour is hard, the metal breastplate pressing heavily down on her stomach and chest. She can’t breathe, but she doesn’t care. And then he frowns down at her, before his gaze quickly flickers back to the Orcs, checking to see if they had heard them.

When he shifts off of her, he helps her sit up. He crouches into front of her, brows furrowed, and takes hold of both her hands.

“You’re shaking.” He says, looking confused. “Why?”

She laughs quietly, humourlessly. “Why do you think? Because I’m _scared_.”

“It’ll be alright, I promise.” She wants to trust the certainty in his voice, and the assurance in his eyes, but she can’t. He seems to see that; something in her expression gives away her doubt. He grips her hands tightly, squeezing them in what she imagines is supposed to be a reassuring manner. “I need you to trust me, Sigrid. There’s only three of them, and they won’t be expecting it. It won’t take long.”

Desperate, she scrabbles for anything to keep him from leaving her side. “But… but if they’re scavengers, then they’re just hungry. They’re not here to hurt us. So if we leave them alone, then they’ll go. You don’t have to – you don’t need to -” 

“And what if they don’t?” He asks her gently, but with a furrowed brow. Already, she can see him starting to shift away, looking for the sword he’d dropped when she dragged him to the ground. He doesn’t understand – he doesn’t _know_ – and he continues before she can even try to explain herself. “What if they do come back and attack a group of farmers next? The farmers don’t have weapons. They won’t have any way to defend themselves. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, knowing I could have stopped it. Could you?”

With a heavy sigh, she has no choice but to shake her head. Fíli smiles slightly, before he releases her hands.

“Here,” he mutters as he reaches inside his coat. He hands her one of his daggers, pressing it firmly into her palm. Her fingers are still trembling when they curl around the handle. It’s a little like one of her kitchen knives, only heavier, and with a thicker, wider blade. She doesn’t notice Fíli reach out, not until his gloved hand touches her cheek. “Just in case,” he says before he leans in and quickly presses a kiss to her brow.

He withdraws before she can stop him. And then he’s gone, sweeping up his sword and twirling it as he rounds the bushes.

Unconsciously, she touches her brow, her skin tingling.

She doesn’t look. She doesn’t look, but that doesn’t mean she can’t _hear_ it.

It’s difficult, fighting the urge to run. She scrambles behind the tree, pressing her back against the bark, and clutches Fíli’s dagger as tightly as she can out in front of her. She drags in a deep breath, one after another, trying to settle her nerves. It doesn’t work. She hates this feeling – this complete and utter _helplessness._ It’s a feeling she knows well. Something she hadn’t thought she’d feel again.

She can hear the clang of metal on metal, grunts, and snarls. And then there’s silence.

She doesn’t know which is worse.

Her hands are still shaking when she lifts her head. She can still remember the sudden silence which had fallen over Dale, when the battle seemed to stop. Huddled in the Great Hall, they hadn’t known what it meant. They prayed for victory, but expected defeat.

“It’s alright, you can come out now.” She hears Fíli call out. She wants to go to him, but she can’t move. 

She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the trunk of the tree as she fights to catch her breath. Her fingers hurt from clutching the dagger so tightly, locked into place around the thick handle. Everything aches; her body is tired and heavy, like she’s run for miles and miles. She hasn’t felt like this since the night the lake went up in flames, but back then she had Tilda to think about. She had had to be strong for her sister’s sake and that had kept her anchored, kept her in control. Dimly, she’s aware of the crunch of grass under heavy boots and the sound of a sword being sheathed. But she’s not aware of Fíli, not until his hand finds its way to her cheek again.

It’s like she can finally breathe again. She opens her eyes as Fíli gently uncurls her fingers, taking back his dagger.

“You’re alright.” She breathes, instinctively reaching out and gripping the fur-trim of his coat. “You’re alright…”

Again, he smiles like it’s nothing. “Of course. Wasn’t even a challenge.”

“A challenge?” She repeats, disconcerted. “Then you’re alright? They – they didn’t hurt you?”

“It was nothing,” he grins. “Over before they even knew what hit them.” His hand seems to hesitate before it shifts, the leather of his gloves soft against her cheek as he brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “A couple of Orcs is nothing to worry about.”

“ _Nothing to worry about_?” She repeats, and his smile starts to falter. “Nothing to -” She scoffs quietly in disbelief, her grip on his coat tightening a fraction before she pushes him away. Her weak shove doesn’t so much as budge him, but his still-water blue eyes meet hers, his forehead etched with concern. He reaches out, as if to touch her cheek again, but she shakes her head and his hand falls back to his side.

“You’re angry with me?” The odd note in his tone catches her attention. There’s a guarded look in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He doesn’t understand, she realises. Somehow he doesn’t know, even after all he has seen and endured. She’d done nothing but run and hide in the battle, and yet she’s more fearful of Orcs than him – as if he doesn’t remember that they almost killed him.

“I’m not _angry.”_   She says, but it comes off too sharp. And deep down, she fears she might be; angry that he doesn’t understand her fear, and angry that he doesn’t feel it as well. He looks away, jaw clenching, and she tries hopelessly again. “I’m… worried. I was afraid you -” She sighs in exasperation, wishing just _once_ that words might come easily to her, “People don’t usually come back.”

“Hey,” Fíli murmurs. He looks as lost she feels. “It’s alright – I’ve fought much worse -”

 _Pale. Bandaged. Shivering with fever._ She’s seen what his worst looks like.

“I _know_ ,” she sighs. “I know you have, but that doesn’t – that doesn’t make it any better.”

“I don’t understand.” He says, with a frustrated edge to his voice. She has to look away, remembering the wounds. The three arrows. The jagged blade pierced through his side. The cut on his thigh, not too deep, but with angry red lines running away from it. The fever which almost took him from them… “Do you think me so weak that I cannot handle myself against just _three_ Orcs?”

Now she is the one who doesn’t understand. But she’s too tired to argue with him.

“We should go.” She sighs, resigned. “Your uncle needs to know what happened. I’ll tell my Da after the memorial…”

Legs unsteady, she slowly stands. Knowing she’ll have to face the creatures – or whatever is left of them, anyway - she wrings her hands, her stomach a knot of nerves. But as she starts to round the bushes, eyes fixed firmly on the ground, Fíli catches her arm and pulls her back.

“Best not to go that way.” He says, the look in his eyes hard for her to read. His grip on her arm slackens, but he doesn’t let go, not until she nods. It’s only then that she notices the blood, near-black, splattered across the chainmail of his armour. It isn’t his blood – she knows that – but it still makes her heart lurch, because it could have been. Fíli follows her gaze and frowns, before releasing her arm.

They walk back to the mountain in silence. He does not touch her again.

 

* * *

 

She sits alone outside the King’s quarters, staring down her trembling hands.

The stone bench is too low, too small; she feels like she’s been forced to sit on a child’s chair. She shifts, uncomfortable, and glances at the closed door beside her. She doesn’t know how long Fíli has been in there with his uncle, but it feels like a long time. The guards stationed outside the King’s quarters don’t speak to her. They don’t even look at her – but that’s their job, so she tries not to take it personally.

She looks down at her hands and sighs. Still shaking.

The hallway echoes; she hears the heavy footsteps of every approaching Dwarf before they even round the corner and come into sight.

She hears Bifur long before she sees him.

She expects him to pass her and continue down the hallway like everyone else, but he pauses instead. He looks up, the jagged scar on his forehead fainter than the last time she saw him, and nods in greeting. She tries to smile, to be polite, but her lips barely do more than twitch. Bifur cocks his head to the side, watching her for a moment before he gestures towards the empty place beside her.

Unsure what to say, she just nods and shuffles up the bench to make room. Bifur sits carefully, grunting quietly in what she imagines is his way of saying ‘thank you’. She doesn’t understand what he wants, or why he chose to sit with her, but she doesn’t question it. Seemingly unaware of her presence, he leans against the wall behind them and takes a knife and a little piece of wood out of his coat pocket. She doesn’t understand, not until he starts carving and cutting away at the wood with his knife.

They sit there for some time, in a silence that is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable.

She doesn’t know why she keeps glancing at the closed door, not knowing whether she wants it to open or not. If the door opens, it’ll be time for her to face the memorial and her father, but if the stays closed, she’ll have to keep waiting… She’d been relieved when King Thorin had asked her to wait outside, and yet... she isn’t so certain anymore. A part of her wants to rip Fíli’s armour off and see for herself that he isn’t hurt, while another part wants to run and hide and not be found for a long, long while.

She tries threading her fingers together to stop them from shaking. It doesn’t work.

“You’re awake early.” She says, when the silence grows too much for her to bear. “Are you here to see the King?”

Bifur looks up from his work and nods.

“Fíli told me Bofur and Nori are going to the Shire, to see Bilbo.” She muses, for lack of anything else to say. “Everyone seems to miss him very much. It’ll be nice, if they manage to bring him back. Even nicer for King Thorin, I imagine…”

Something close to a smile tugs at Bifur’s lips. He lifts one hand and thumps it against his chest. When she frowns, not sure she understands what he’s trying to say, he flattens his palm over his chest, where his heart is. “Love?” She guesses. Bifur nods, looking pleased to be understood. She hums in thought, leaning back against the wall as well. “It must be difficult, loving someone, only to have them walk away...”

Bifur holds up his hands, mimicking something breaking.

He goes back to his work after that, and they fall back into silence.

She tries clenching her fists to stop the shaking, but that doesn’t work. Crossing her arms over her chest doesn’t help either. Neither does trying to braid her hair. And then with a sudden grunt, Bifur looks up from his work and jerks his chin towards her hands. Too weary to be embarrassed, she just shrugs. Bifur frowns, setting his knife and carving down on his lap. He extends one of his hand to her, and for a moment, she thinks he wants her to hold it, until she sees that it’s shaking too. His hands are shaking, just like hers.

He taps his forehead, and then thumps his chest. And then, very deliberately, he goes picks up his knife and his carving and suddenly his hands aren’t shaking anymore. He glances back at her, nodding sagely, like he just gave her all the answers.

She frowns, wondering if perhaps he did.

“If Prince Fíli asks, would you please tell him that I’ve gone to the memorial?” She asks, directing her question towards the still, silent guards. Neither of them acknowledge her, but she hadn’t really expected them to. She looks back at Bifur and musters up the best smile she can manage. “Thank you, Bifur. We’ll speak again another time, alright?”

She thinks she sees the Dwarf wave before she hurries away, fleeing the hallway.  

She does not linger in the mountain. She leaves the very first chance she gets.

Two guards from the gates follow her along the road, their armed presence comforting for a change. But even so, she can’t help but keep an ever watchful gaze around them. _More will come,_ something whispers to her from the dark, frightened corners of her mind, _there’s always more._ The rising sun does little to chase the chill from the air, her breath lingering in the air in front of her – and yet it’s not the cold that makes her shiver. She clutches her coat a little tighter, pretending she can’t hear the Dwarves complaining behind her.

The Dwarves leave her at the causeway, and she enters the city alone.

Every step she takes, she expects she’ll have to run. Every sound has her looking over her shoulder, expecting to see something from her nightmares chasing after her. She shoves her shaking hands into her coat pockets and keeps her head down.

The city is quiet, most still abed. There’s no work, not today. Her breath hitches in her throat, her resolve already threatening to shatter. Her people will expect certain things from her – that she’ll be strong, and stand proudly at her father’s side when the statue is unveiled. Today is meant to be a day of remembrance. But remembering all the terrible things which happened is the last thing she wants to do.

Just for a moment, she pauses. She looks back at the mountain, and at the dark clouds gathering around the summit of the lone peak. She wonders if the door to the King’s quarters has opened, and if Bifur is still sitting on that little bench outside, carving away.

She can’t help but sigh when her thoughts inevitably shift to Fíli.  

When she finally reaches the great house of Girion – now home to the future of the King of Dale – she feels the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Someone has painted the shutters blue. And when she steps through the door, somehow it almost feels like coming home - her father’s coat is hung up by the door, Bain’s boots are strewn across the floor, Tilda’s drawings are on the dining room table…  

She climbs the stairs slowly, tired to the bone. Without a second thought, she creeps into the room she shares with Tilda and sheds her coat, letting it fall to the ground. The bed is big enough to fit four people, and yet Tilda still sleeps curled up on one side – the same way she does, when sleeping alone in the mountain. She doesn’t notice that her hands aren’t shaking anymore when she unties the laces on her muddy boots and kicks them off. Tilda stirs when she climbs into bed, a little crease forming between her brows.

“Toes are cold…” Tilda grumbles, but reaches blindly for her all the same.  

Tilda shifts, rolling close and tucking her head under Sigrid’s chin. She’s warm and she clutches onto her as tightly as she can without waking her. _Safe,_ something inside of her finally sighs, _you’re safe now._ She falls asleep, sleeping dreamlessly for the first time in weeks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a bit longer than i expected, i've got a pretty bad cold so i haven't really felt like writing. this chapter is a bit shorter than most, so i'll make sure the next one is a nice long one :) but i hope you enjoyed it anyway.
> 
> oh, and happy valentine's day my lovelies <3
> 
> OH, and on a completely unrelated note. have you seen this (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTCkhL-IDd8) compilation of deleted scenes from BOTFA? there's a sigrid and tilda scene at 1:06 that makes my heart melt.


	13. Chapter 13

She wakes to the sound of ringing bells.

The house is quiet. Tilda’s side of the bed is cold and empty. She squints against the sunlight streaming in through the holes in the curtains, and rolls onto her back. She slings her arm over her eyes and listens to the bells. The bells had rung the night Smaug descended upon her home, but strangely, hearing them now doesn’t make her think of that. She thinks of her wedding day. All smiling faces, the flowers strewn across the cobblestones, and the ribbons wrapped around burnt, withered tree branches. The way Fíli had grinned when their eyes met.

She hadn’t thought it would be a happy memory, but in its own, confusing way, it is.

So much has changed since that day. Things were less… muddled back then. Or at least, she was less confused.

Eventually she rises, knowing she cannot linger in bed forever – as much as she might want to. The stone floor is cold and she drags a quilt off of the bed to wrap around her shoulders. The house feels too big; empty without her family. The bells aren’t ringing anymore and the quiet is unsettling. She finds herself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea in one hand and a piece of toast in the other.

The kitchen is in its usual state of disorder and idly, she traces shapes in the thin layer of flour left on the counter.

Eventually, when she’s eaten her toast and her tea has gone cold, the silence grows too much for her. She walks through the empty house, out to the garden. It’s a sad sight, something she really shouldn’t be so surprised to see. Neglected, the weeds have sprung back up and spread. And the cold has killed the flowers and withered the plants. She sits on the little step and leans against the door frame, dejected.

It’s not the sorry state of her garden that has her so upset – she knows that, but just for a moment, she lets herself pretend that it is. Though deep down, she finds a small shred of comfort knowing that the flowers and the plants will come back, Bilbo had promised they would.

She sits outside, trying to imagine this place in the spring, until she hears the front door open. She gets to her feet, her toes numb from the cold, and wanders back into the house. Only her father’s coat is hung up by the front door, Bain and Tilda’s are both still missing.

“Da?” She calls out, frowning as she looks around the empty house.

“Up here, darling.” Her father calls from upstairs.

She finds her father in his room, sat at the foot of his bed. There’s a weariness to the set of his shoulders that she recognises. He raises his head at the sound of her approach, a faint smile tugging at his lips when his gaze settles on her. He pats the empty space beside him and she feels herself smile a little. She sits down beside him and leans into his side, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “For missing the memorial.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I couldn’t bear to wake you, you looked like you needed the sleep.”

“How was it?” She wonders, and he just shrugs. “And the statue?”

“The Master had a statue.” Bard says, with a weary edge to his voice. She lifts her head from his shoulder and frowns. She remembers it well; gold, and towering over them. The Master built a gleaming image of himself while the town struggled and starved. She remembers the way many of the townsfolk would spit at the foot of it, something which become a sort of game to some of the children.

“Aye, he did. But you’re nothing like him.”

His lip twitches, but his troubled expression remains unchanged.

“Da…” She begins to say, but he wraps his arm around her waist and tugs her back into his side.

“It’s not the statue.” He says as he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Then what is it?” She asks. When he doesn’t respond, she frowns. “Won’t you tell me?”

“Fíli told me what happened.” Bard says very quietly, rubbing gentle circles against her back. She tenses, the events of that morning coming back to her in a rush. The lake. The Orcs. The way Fíli had looked at her. “I’m so sorry, love. When you told me about the broken fence, I should have paid more attention. I should have looked into it more. I should have known something like this might happen. It’s my fault –”

“No – _no -_ it’s not your fault, Da. It’s nobody’s fault.” She cries, and she tries to shift so that she can look at him, but his arm holds her close and keeps her in place. So she takes his hand instead and squeezes it. “You couldn’t have known.”

And – privately – she knows she shouldn’t have been out there, not so early in the morning, and not without telling anyone where they were going. A shiver runs down her spine, wondering if those creatures had been out there the first time she journeyed to the lake alone.

“Today I promised our people that I would keep them safe, that as their King I would never again let harm come to them... But what is the point of being King if I cannot keep _you_ safe?” Bard sighs, and turns his hand over to hold hers. “And to think, I argued with the Dwarves when they assigned you guards. I didn’t think it was necessary. I thought – who was going to hurt my little girl? But they were right…”

Bard straightens, and his grip on her loosens enough for her to turn to look at him. “We’re not in Laketown anymore. Things have changed, and it’s time that we accept that. You will have guards, not just that one Dwarf, and you must promise that you won’t sneak away from them whenever you feel like it, Sigrid. And you will have a horse.”

“It’s not necessary,” she protests. “The Orcs are _gone_. I don’t need guards, or a horse for that matter –”

“You will.” He says, grim-faced, with worry in his eyes. “I’m not asking you, Sigrid.”

Knowing how pointless arguing with him will be, she sighs.

“You can choose whoever you like to be your guards, but until then, I’ll ask Jon and Brynjolf. There’s no better swordsmen, and Brynjolf’s known you all your life. He’ll keep you safe… Aye, you’ll be safe…” She gets the feeling that the reassurance isn’t for her sake when her father drags his hand down his face with a weary sigh. She feels a stab of guilt, seeing him so worried, and knowing that she’s the cause.

She hasn’t seen this side of him in a long time – the weary bargeman who felt exhaustion deep in his bones, and was gone from dawn until dusk every day trying to earn enough coin to put food on the table, yet still managed to smile and keep awake long enough to tuck his children into bed and read them stories. Her father has been putting on a brave face for them all ever since he killed the dragon. But it wavers now, and to think that she is the cause… It _hurts_. Her eyes sting, and she doesn’t know what to say.

“Where are Bain and Tilda?” She finds herself asking, needing to change the subject.

“With King Thranduil.” He replies, with something close to a smile tugging at his lips. “He spoils Tilda worse than I do. He brought one of his elks with him and promised to show her. They don’t know what happened yet. I didn’t want to worry them.”

“Good,” she murmurs. “That’s good… It’s better, if they don’t know.”

“Oh, I’d almost forgotten – your Dwarf wanted me to ask you if you’d consider visiting him in the mountain later today.” She splutters a little at him calling Fíli ‘her’ Dwarf, but her father continues, seemingly oblivious. “I don’t know why, but he seemed… insistent. I’ll have a word with the Percy about finding you a horse, but it may take some time. So if you do decide to go, you must promise me you’ll take Jon and Brynjolf.”

“I will, Da. I promise.” She says, and smiles a little when he squeezes her hand.

Bard smiles, looking like a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“There are some things I must see to in the mountain this afternoon,” he tells her. “So I thought that we might have dinner together, just the two of us. Bain and Tilda have been taken hostage by the Elves, so we don’t need to worry about them.”

For the first time in days, she laughs properly, and nods. “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t understand these Dwarves, why do they build everything so big when they’re so small?” Jon – ever so insightfully – asks.

She glances across at Brynjolf and the man rolls his eyes.

“Must be odd, being so tall amongst this lot.” Jon insists on continuing, when neither she nor Brynjolf responds to his question. Jon casts a glance around them speculatively. “Strange creatures these Dwarves. All ‘airy and bad-tempered, like something from me Mam’s stories. _Never trust a Dwarf,_ she always liked to say. The mad old bat, wonder what she’d say if she was ‘ere now? Nothing nice, I’d imagine…”

On any other day, she could have smiled and humoured her more talkative guard. But not today.

Not when she has spent what feels like an age watching Fíli fight various opponents – and to what end, she still doesn’t know. She should have left the moment a messenger approached her, informing her that _her Prince_ was waiting for her in the training arena. And when she did arrive, in a part of the kingdom she’d never laid eyes on before, Fíli hadn’t looked happy to see her, but _determined._ She should have known…

It begins with a Dwarf she doesn’t know, who is as big and as terrifying as Dwalin, with scars and tattoos covering his bare arms. Even Fíli seems small, standing next to him. The two Dwarves had circled each other for a bit, before charging at each other with – _supposedly –_ blunt swords. She thought seeing the two hacking and slashing at each other would be the worst of it. She was wrong.

She sits between Jon and Brynjolf with her chin in the palm of her hand, her elbows resting on her knees.

“Oh look,” she mutters. “They’re using their fists now.”

“So they are, Princess.” Brynjolf says, looking unimpressed by the display.

A solid blow to Fíli’s jaw makes her wince; it knocks his head back and he staggers for a moment, seeming stunned. But then he grins, twirling out of the way of another blow, and lands one of his own. There’s already a bruise forming, and a nick to his brow has blood trailing down his cheek. When the Dwarf swings at him again, her breath catches in her throat. Unconsciously, she digs her nails into her palm to stop herself from doing something stupid – like grabbing Brynjolf’s hand and begging him to stop this foolishness.

“They must have grown tired of swords.” She sighs despairingly, watching as Fíli hooks an arm around the other Dwarf’s neck when he lunges for his sword. The Dwarf struggles, elbowing Fíli in the stomach until his grip loosens enough for him to slip free. With a fierce battle cry, he barrels into Fíli, toppling them both to the ground. “They fight like they’re trying to kill each other…”

“This is why you only killed one hundred and forty three buggers in the battle, _boy!”_ The other Dwarf yells at Fíli.

“S’pose this is how Dwarves train?” Jon offers, though he doesn’t look so certain.

“No structure, no discipline… How could anyone call this training?” Brynjolf mutters, his dark glare turning troubled. She has seen the way Brynjolf teaches his men, teaching his soldiers to be tempered and to use their swords only in great need. She understands his concern. “They’re strong and fierce; they fight with passion, aye, but it’s uncontrolled.”

“Aye, but this isn’t a show of skill or discipline.” Says Jon. “This is a show of strength.”

Brynjolf scowls, looking upon the Dwarves with an uncertain look in his eyes. “To what end?”

“It’s entertaining.” Jon’s smirk fades when Brynjolf shoots him a quelling look. “Or not.”

They’re grappling on the floor, fighting over a discarded sword. And they’re laughing, both of them – like it’s all in jest. The Dwarf manages to knee Fíli in the stomach, sending him rolling onto his back. But Fíli is faster than the other Dwarf, he’s on his feet and snatching up his sword before the Dwarf knows what hit him. Fíli taps the Dwarf’s throat with the flat of the sword, grinning.

“Do you yield, friend?” He asks, with his gaze flickering to her for a moment. He looks so proud, so she forces herself to smile.

She feels herself sigh in relief, imagining that it’s over – that she’ll be able to leave, and not have to watch anymore – but her relief is short-lived. When the Dwarf yields, another soon steps up to take his place. This one she recognises. Dwalin.  _Of course,_ it’s Dwalin. As she sits there, feeling ire building up inside of her, she supposes that all she can do is hope this time someone won’t end up in the healing tents.

“What’ll it be, axe or sword, lad?” Dwalin asks, before muttering something she can’t hear.

Fíli grins and tosses his sword aside. “Axe.”

“That one’s the Captain of the Guards, ain’t he?” Jon asks, attempting – poorly – to hide his enthusiasm.

“You’re a Prince,” Dwalin says as he hands Fíli an axe that’s almost as tall as he is. “I taught you better than to fight like you’re in some pub brawl. You’ve got no defences, lad, it can’t all be attack. Not all you’re opponents are going to be a bunch of mindless Orcs.”

“Aye.” Brynjolf mutters, and her eyebrows shoot up. She’d never thought she’d see the day when he agreed with a _Dwarf_. Noticing her surprise, the man frowns, looking somewhat defensive. Beside her, she can practically hear Jon’s smirk. “What?”

Dwalin yells – what she imagines is orders and directions – in Khuzdul at Fíli while they fight. With a larger, heavier weapon, Fíli has to fight differently than with his two swords. But Fíli is faster, using that to his advantage he dodges and blocks Dwalin’s advances. Dwalin swings with ferocity, and she watches with a heavy feeling pressing down on her chest, but he never catches him with the end of his axe. And when their axes meet, a clash of steel that echoes around the room, Fíli kicks Dwalin in the knee and laughs as the other Dwarf stumbles.

What had made her smile briefly during the tournament now worries her.

She worries that there will be more days where she has to sit at his bedside, fearful for his life. She doesn’t know if she can ever care for someone that goes looking for battle – that seeks out danger with a smile on his face. Already, she knows too much of war and the fear that follows seeing a person she loves leave, knowing that they may never return. She cannot bear the thought of feeling that fear again.

In the healing tents, after the battle, she hadn’t even known Fíli or his brother well and yet - she’d taken one look at them and felt as though something in her chest was tearing. She can’t imagine what it would feel like now, if she went through the same thing again. She isn’t strong like her father, she doesn’t know how to put on a brave face…

She looks up in time to see Dwalin head-butt Fíli, knocking him back into the dirt. And then she can take no more.

“Are we leaving, Princess?” Jon calls after her as she gets to her feet and stalks away from the arena. “So soon? It was getting good -”

“Sigrid?” She wants to pretend like she doesn’t hear him – and that she doesn’t hear him throwing his axe down or the sound of his heavy footsteps behind her – but she sighs instead, and glances at Brynjolf and Jon before turns to face him.

“Could you give us a moment?” She asks, waiting until Brynjolf nods before she lets herself look at Fíli.

He’s breathing heavily, sweat beading across his brow. His lip is bleeding a little, split from a blow she hadn’t seen. His forehead is red from where Dwalin knocked it, there’s blood drying on his temple and cheek, a dark bruise on his jaw, and yet he _grins_. For a moment, all she can do is stare at him in disbelief, grateful that Jon and Brynjolf have gone, leaving them without an audience.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He grins. “I’m only getting warmed up.”

“Fíli.” She sighs, her temples throbbing with the beginnings of a headache. “Please -”

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving.” He says with a somewhat breathless laugh, somehow still painfully oblivious. Her gaze snaps to him, her temper flaring. “Stay a little longer, we’re only just getting started. We’ve not even moved onto axe throwing yet -”

“Of course I’m leaving!” She snaps, struggling to keep her temper in check. The dreams, the lake, the Orcs, and now _this?_ It’s too much. Fíli’s grin falters and he takes a step forward, holding out his hand as if to touch her arm. The look in his eyes – a brief flicker of hurt and confusion – makes her anger fade into something else, something sadder. She has never been more aware of their differences until now.

“I don’t understand.” He says, and she blinks against the threat of tears because neither does she. She doesn’t understand any of it.

“Why did you make me come here, Fíli? I don’t understand - after everything that happened this morning, why do you think I want to watch _this?”_ She begs of him, desperately needing to know. He doesn’t seem to notice the despairing edge of her voice, his expression grows guarded as he stares down at the ground. She recalls the disagreement they had once before, on the road between Dale and the mountain. She’d been in the wrong then, but now she isn’t so sure. Maybe they are too different. Maybe they will never understand one and other.

“Am I such a disgrace to you that you cannot even humour me a little?” His voice is barely more than a whisper, but she hears it and the hurt carried with it. His eyes are narrowed, his expression difficult to read, when he finally looks up at her. There is a hard look in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “You tried to leave the tournament early and you leave again now. What more must I do?”

“Nothing,” she says and pretends she does not see the look of disbelief he shoots her.

“Tell me what you would have me do.” He demands, that hard look in his eyes wavering for a moment. He reaches out and hesitates only for a brief moment before he carefully takes hold of her left hand, rubbing her ring with his thumb. Her gaze falls to their hands, finding his gaze too difficult to hold. “If there is some way for me to prove myself to you, name it, and I will see it done.”

“There’s nothing – Fíli, you don’t have to -”

 _“Murkhâl._ _Akrâg. Amnâs.”_ He mutters in a low tone, releasing her hand.

“I don’t – I don’t understand. What does that mean?” She asks, and frowns when he meets her gaze with an air of frustration. “If you don’t tell me, you can’t expect me to know what -”

“It matters not, you’ve made that clear enough.” He cuts in, his voice strangely flat.

“You – you never answered my question.” She splutters eventually, not knowing what else to say. It’s hard, knowing what to say – or do, for that matter – when he’s looking at her with such a guarded, unfamiliar look in on his face. She thought she had an ally in him, a _friend_ , in this dark, lonely kingdom. She thought they understood one and other. “Why did you make me watch… whatever that display was?”

“Why do you think?” He mutters, avoiding answering the question.

She can feel tears gathering, a burn that has grown all too familiar. “You… you told me I didn’t have to pretend around you.” She says, her lower lip betraying her by trembling a little. Fíli notices, the hard look in his eyes wavering. “So I won’t. I can’t – I can’t watch you -”

“…no, no, wait - I think she’s crying. He’s not allowed to do that, inne? Should we do something? Can’t be upsetting the -” The stone walls echo Jon’s voice, and she looks over her shoulder, catching the man lean around the corner to peer at her and Fíli. She ducks her head and flushes, realising they weren’t quite as alone as she had thought.

“I have to go, my father will be expecting me.” She says, and very much against her own will, she reaches out and wipes the blood from his cheek with her thumb. Something in his expression changes, shifting to something even more unreadable. “Don’t ask me to come here again.”

She walks away, her shoulders stiff and straight. Jon and Brynjolf follow, with matching looks of concern.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Jon asks, ignoring Brynjolf’s quelling look. “Did the Dwarf say something to upset you?”

She pauses at that, her jaw snapping shut. “His name is _Fíli_ , and no, he didn’t say anything to upset me.” She can practically hear Dara’s voice in her ears, telling her to mind her manners. She has to suppress a sigh before she continues. “I appreciate your concern, but if I ever ask for a moment alone with my husband again, please do as I say. I know you’re here to guard me, but you don’t have to, not from him…”

She looks back, half-hoping that he’ll call out her name, and sighs when she sees that he’s already gone.

 

* * *

 

It takes a week for her to work up the courage to finally visit the memorial statue.

The face of the stone statue is grim but determined, it stands on a pedestal with a bow raised and drawn. She doesn’t see much of her father in it, it lacks the little creases by his eyes when he smiles and the eternal untidiness of his hair. But she sees the King and saviour their people need him to be. They don’t need the bargeman who struggled and suffered the same as them, but the man who rose up when no one else did and saved them from ruin. And beneath him, edged into marble, are words of remembrance.

It had snowed in the night, not heavily, but enough to coat the cobblestones in a light layer of white. There is snow gathered on the statue, caught in her father’s furrowed brow. The first snowfall of many, if Oín and his portents are to be believed. They won’t have to suffer through this winter, shivering and huddled together in the Great Hall, but the worry still lingers.

A part of her had known she wouldn’t be alone for long, so she isn’t surprised when she hears the sound of footsteps behind her. She can understand her father’s desire for her to have guards escorting her between the city and the mountain, but within Dale, she’s not sure she understands the need. A moment later, a gloved hand falls on her shoulder and she turns, sighing.

“Is it too much to ask for one moment alone -” She begins to say, trailing off when her gaze falls on Gared.

Habit, more than anything, has her smiling at the sight of her old friend. Even though, deep down, a part of her had hoped to see someone else. “Sorry, I thought you were one of my guards…” She frowns a little as her gaze travels down his lanky frame; his usual clothes, weathered and covered in poorly patched up holes, are gone, replaced with something similar to Jon and Brynjolf’s guard uniform. “You look… different.”

“The memorial… helped, I s’pose. Helped me see things differently.” He answers vaguely, not meeting her gaze.

“How so?” She can’t help but ask, uncomfortable with how unfamiliar her old friend looks.

But Gared just shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. That’s not why – I mean, I wanted to say - I’ve been… uh, hoping to run into you. Been thinking that I need to apologise for what happened the other night. Being back here… it’s been difficult, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Your family has always been good to us, and you’re my oldest friend… So I’m sorry, Sig’. And I owe the Dwarf an apology as well –”

“Fíli…” She mumbles, barely more than a whisper. “His name is Fíli…”

She shakes her head, as if to shake the thoughts from her head, and sighs internally. “I’ll tell him.”

She grimaces, realising that she’ll have to stop avoiding Fíli eventually if she is to keep her word. It has been a long week, and far more difficult than expected to avoid Fíli. As large as Erebor is, it seems that no matter where she goes, her Dwarf husband will be around the next corner. It had crossed her mind briefly that their run-ins might be planned, except for the look of surprise that flashed across his features every time.

“So what d’you think?” Gared asks after a moment, glancing at the statue behind her.

“It’s… not what I expected.” She murmurs truthfully, her lips twisting in thought as she turns her attention to the statue behind her, her gaze settling on the crown resting upon her father’s head. “He looks so… different. Like a king.”

Gared’s cocks a brow. “He is a king, Sig’. Soon to be, anyway.”

“Not to me.” She mumbles, knowing – deep down – that her upset isn’t over a statue.

“Think they’ll make a statue of you next?” Gared grins.

She rolls her eyes. “They better not.”

At that, Gared finally lifts his gaze and he smiles sheepishly, a look so familiar that she finds herself smiling too.

“I’ve been thinking… I might stay, at least for now. I’m training to be a guard.”

“A guard?” She frowns, her brief smile slipping away. “Why?”

“It pays better than farm work.” He shrugs, and when he notices her troubled expression, he frowns. “What’s with the scowl, Sig’, I thought you’d be relieved? Wasn’t this what you wanted – me staying, not leaving my Da alone and all that?” His gaze drops to his hands, wringing them agitatedly. “I don’t know, maybe I thought… I thought I could be one of your guards, y’know, once my training’s done…”

“Oh.” She says, taken aback. “I do want you to stay but…” She tries not to imagine Gared with an axe strapped to his back, wearing armour, and storming into battle, laughing, like it’s all a game. She had thought of all people, he’d understand.

“But what?” He frowns. “I thought you’d be glad?”

“I am! _Of course_ I want you to stay, Gared. I just… I never thought –” She casts her gaze away, jaw clenching. Sigrid looks up at the statue, and at the words written beneath it - _'So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings’._ “Do you ever wonder… If people learnt to put down their swords, then maybe we wouldn’t need a memorial – maybe there wouldn’t have been a battle at all…”

Gared rolls his eyes but there’s affection in his smile. “It’s a nice thought, Sig’, but do you ever think that if more of us had actually known how to fight, then more might have survived the battle? It’s a bloody miracle that so many survived - most of us had never even held a sword before, and didn’t know much else besides ‘stick ‘em with the pointy end’. ”

She peers at him out of the corner of her eye, gaze settling on his scarred cheek. “They said I was lucky,” he continues, grimacing. “Lucky not to lose my eye, lucky not to die like my brother… If something bad happens again, I don’t want to depend on _luck_.”

Eventually, she sighs. “You’re right, I’m sorry -”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” Gared laughs, waving off her apologies. “You’ve always been too soft. You were always bringing home birds with broken wings and crying like a baby if someone so much as stepped on a bee. Y’know, you’re worse than Tilda -”

“That’s not true,” she attempts to scowl but the small smile pulling at her lips gives her away.

“And anyway, it’s not like I _want_ to go charging off into war. It’s not fun, no matter what your Dwarves might say.” Gared says, reaching out to ruffle her hair. His long, thin fingers linger, trail down her cheek and she goes very still. “If I could live my life never having to pick up a weapon again, I’d be happy, but the world’s not like that. There’s always going to be bad things out there… we just have to be ready, eh?”

Helplessness is a feeling she has become accustomed to. She’d felt helpless ever since the moment Orcs attacked her home, a terrible sinking feeling she hasn’t been quite able to shake. _I say we stand with our men in life and in death –_ the moment haunts her because in that moment, she _hadn’t_ been helpless. In that moment, if not for her fear, she could have taken up a sword and protected her brother and sister.

She supposes she has that same choice now.

“There’s… something I need to do, but you’ll come for dinner, won’t you? Da will want to hear all about your training; he’ll be over the moon that you’re thinking about staying. And I – I -” And then Gared grins, looking so much like his old self that she can’t help but rush forward and hug him. “I’m glad you’re staying,” she murmurs, voice muffled against his shoulder. “I missed you.”

Gared just grins when she draws away, ruffling her hair again.

“I’ll see you tonight then, _milady.”_  The formality makes her roll her eyes, but she walks away smiling to herself.

She changes into a warmer coat and a sturdier pair of boots before she goes off in search of Jon or Brynjolf, knowing her father wouldn’t be pleased if she ventured off towards the mountain without one of them. She finds Brynjolf easily enough, spotting his dark auburn hair amongst the crowd in the training yard. The man just nods and collects his sword when she catches his eye, not needing to be told.

The forges keep the mountain warm, untouched by the cold. They come and go, dressed the same as they would on the warmest summer’s day. A part of her is almost envious that the Dwarves don’t have to worry, as her people do, when winter comes. She glances up at Brnyjolf, and judging from the expression on the man’s face, she imagines he’s thinking something along the same lines.

She knows Fíli’s schedule well enough to know that his mornings are filled with council meetings. She leaves word with one of the messengers, a brief note asking him to meet her in her chambers when he is able, and Brynjolf returns to Dale. She settles herself in for a long wait, sitting in front of the hearth with a cup of tea and a book while she waits for some lunch to be brought up for them both.

Time passes slowly, she doesn’t know how long she waits before there is a knock at the door. She sets down her book on Elvish tales – a gift, kindly given to her by King Thranduil – and makes her way to the door, expecting it to be a servant with her lunch.

“Fíli,” she breathes, surprising herself with the rush of relief she feels at the sight of him. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Yeah, well, the meeting finished early.” Fíli shrugs, not quite meeting her gaze. Relief, evidentially, isn’t mutual feeling. She tries not to feel too disappointed. “Your note was… unexpected. Is there something wrong?”

“No, there’s nothing – nothing’s _wrong_.” She stammers, inexplicably nervous. “I just – I thought we might have lunch together.”

Fíli smiles, but it’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he doesn’t know what to think. She opens the door a little wider, letting him in.

She retreats to the armchair in front of the hearth and Fíli follows, settling into the other chair. The air between them feels heavy, tense. Her gaze lingers on the bruise on his jaw and he shifts, seeming uncomfortable under her gaze. She forces herself to look away. 

“About the other day,” she begins, apprehensive. “I’m sorry for the way I left things. I was angry but I shouldn’t have -”

Fíli frowns, worry etched into his features. “You don’t have to –”

“No, I do.” She cuts in, her tone curter than she intended. “Whether we like it or not, we’re married,” she continues, softer, “and we need to talk about these sorts of things so there’s no misunderstandings between us. And about the other day, I didn’t mean to… upset you, by leaving the tournament early – if that was what that was all about. I didn’t think you’d care, if I left.”

“Of course I cared.” He mutters, refusing to meet her gaze again as he scowls at his boots.

“I wanted to leave the tournament because…” The words are there, on the tip of her tongue, but she lacks the courage to speak them aloud. She rubs her temple, already feeling a headache forming. “I don’t know if you remember it, but I was there – after the battle, in the healing tents. I wanted to help and they assigned me to you and Kíli… I was there when you – when…”

“I remember.” He says, his tone gentle. “But what does that have to do with the tournament and what happened last week?”

She presses her lips together anxiously. “It’s hard for me to watch you fight. I worry that it’ll happen again, that I’ll end up at your bedside again, wondering if you’ll live or die. That morning, with the Orcs… it was as if my worst nightmare had come true, and then when you made me watch you fight – it was too much.”

“I did not know,” he laments. “Forgive me, I only wished to show you that you had no reason to be afraid. I needed you to know that I will _always_ keep you safe, _yâsith_ …” He falls against the back of the armchair with a heavy sigh and runs his gloved hand down his face. “When you left, I imagined it was because you thought I was weak and unable to protect you… I forget sometimes that you do not know all of our customs, that I never truly explained our wedding vows to you.”

Fíli leans forward across the space between them and lightly places his hand on her knee. She grows very still.

“I fight for a good many things, but most of all, for you.” He murmurs softly. “ _Murkhâl. Akrâg. Amnâs._ It’s difficult to explain, but they’re… they’re a promise I made to you. An oath never to be broken. Should I fail to keep my word, I may as well shave off my beard and name myself  _Abnâthukraf_.”

It ought to be comforting, but a bitter voice in the back of her head whispers to her. _It’s not you he cares about, he’s just keeping to his vows._ She blinks, caught off-guard by the thought. She looks down at Fíli’s hand, resting lightly on her knee, and the matching gold ring he wears, wondering how it had all got so confused. Fortunately, she’s saved from that worrying train of thought by a sudden knock at the door.

“That’ll be lunch.” She says, leaping to her feet perhaps a little too eagerly. Fíli’s hand falls away from her knee and he frowns.

She opens the door, letting her usual serving girl inside. The young Dwarf sets down the tray of food on the small table between the two armchairs and hurries from the room, flushing and shooting her an encouraging grin. Like she'd walked in something she shouldn't have. Lunch is fairly simple – vegetable soup with warm bread to dip in it. She returns to her seat, ignoring the flurry of nerves growing in the pit of her stomach.

“As you say, whether we like it or no, we are married.” Fíli tells her, uncharacteristically serious, when lunch is no longer a distraction and empty dishes sit between them. “And regardless of my intent, I upset you. I… I only wish there was something I could do to make amends.”

“Oh, truly, there’s no need – you didn’t know -” She begins, but he cuts her off.

“Please.” Is all he says, the look in his eyes so heartbreakingly sincere that she has to look away.

“Alright…” She says, playing with a loose thread on her sleeve. “There is one thing.”

“Name it and I will see it done. You have my word.”

She speaks quickly, before she can lose her nerve. “Teach me how to fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm the worst i know, i'm sorry i'm sorry, writer's block just hit me reeaaally hard all of a sudden. but i'm back! and i promise the next update won't take two months. thank you all for your patience <3 if you ever want to talk, or cry about the hobbit, or nag me about updating you can find me over at littlebardlings on tumblr :)
> 
> and yes, i named brynjolf after my favourite skyrim character.
> 
> this chapter was inspired by the quote, “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” in my mind, i see fili and faramir as being quite similar, so i like to think it fits :)
> 
> oh, and as always, this is unbeta-ed, so if you spot any mistakes that i've overlooked please let me know. i do most of my writing when i'm half asleep and i'm a terrible proof-reader so it's bound to happen.
> 
> Murkhâl - shield/strength, Akrâg - honour, Amnâs - loyalty, Abnâthukraf - oathbreaker
> 
> (special thanks to [Dwarven Dictionary](https://www.scribd.com/doc/205151251/Dwarven-Dictonary))


	14. Chapter 14

The sword feels too heavy, all wrong for her hands. The pointed tip of the sword drags through the dirt of the practice arena as she paces, her gaze fixed its blunt edge. She can feel Fíli’s gaze on her from across the small arena, the weight of it making her skin tingle.

They’re alone – mercifully, there’s no one there to watch her imminent humiliation.

“We don’t have to do this.” Fíli calls out to her, for quite possibly for the hundredth time that morning. It’s a tempting offer – it’s one of her days off from helping Oín in the Healing Wing, and there are so many things she’d rather do than this. They could pay a visit to Ori in the library, find Kíli and Tauriel, or have a long-overdue Khuzdul lesson. Instead, she sighs and shakes her head. There’s no use turning back now.

“How’s the sword?” Fíli asks as he tests the weight of one of the wooden practice swords.

“Heavy,” she admits and he hums thoughtfully.

“I’ll forge you a better one, but for now this will have to do.” He says, giving her a look like he expects her to argue. She remains quiet, fighting the urge to protest him going to the trouble just for her sake, and is rewarded with the brief, pleased smile that tugs at Fíli’s lips. “A lighter blade, I’d say, a smaller pommel, and better balanced…” She doesn’t quite understand, but she nods anyway, earning another small smile.

He approaches her slowly, a wooden sword hanging loosely from his grip, and rubs the back of his neck with his other hand, looking suddenly sheepish. She finds the expression strangely endearing. “I don’t – ah, I’m not quite sure how to do this.”

“You’ve never trained anyone before?” She asks, surprised.

“No, I have… just never…” The way he gestures vaguely towards her makes her frown.

“There’s a reason I didn’t go to my father with this.” She tells him with a quiet huff of frustration. She wraps her fingers around the sword properly, lifts it, and tries to mimic the twirling motion she’s seen him do. “I don’t want you to _go easy_ on me, Fíli. I need to learn how to do this properly. Treat me the same way you’d treat anyone looking to learn how to fight.”

“Alright,” he eventually sighs. “But if you want to stop, just say the word. Don’t hesitate.”

She gives the sword a swing, aiming at nothing in particular, just to test the weight of it, and Fíli frowns slightly.

“When you’re fighting someone, you’ll want to stand like this.” He says, turning his body sideways. “Smaller target that way.”

She glances around her with a teasing grin. “Am I fighting someone?”

“Not yet.” Fíli grins.

He sets down his wooden sword when he stops in front of her, observing her for a moment before he reaches out to tap her left hand. “With a sword like this, you’ll need to use both hands. Keep them a bit wider apart, so the weight is balanced. And not so tense, remember to keep your wrists relaxed. And bend your elbows, like this. Oh, and stand with your feet a bit wider apart too, aye, like that.”

Fíli circles her, looking her over with an appraising look that in any other circumstance would have made her blush. “If your opponent happens to be a Dwarf, your height might prove both an advantage and a disadvantage – but I doubt you’ll be fighting any Dwarves, if I have anything to say about it. So let’s just assume that anyone you might be faced with is a larger opponent and not quite as light on their feet as you.”

 _Orcs,_ her mind supplies her with. _He’s talking about Orcs._

“I knew someone once who said fighting was a lot like dancing.” He chuckles.

“And I’m a hopeless dancer,” she groans. “That doesn’t bode well.”

Fíli’s eyes flash to her, looking annoyed all of a sudden. “Who told you that?”

“Well, no one, I suppose... but anyone who’s ever danced with me has thought it at least once, I’m sure. I believe Dara compared me to a _stumbling Goblin mutant_ on one occasion and… well, it doesn’t matter.” Realising she’s rambling, she trails off, certain that her cheeks have turned an embarrassing shade of red. Fíli’s gaze remains fixed on her, his expression difficult to read.

“You’ve danced with me,” she continues. “You can’t honestly say you never thought –”

“I would never think that of you.” Fíli says, his gaze falling to the ground.

“Oh,” is all she can manage to say at first. Fíli glances up at her briefly, his expression oddly sheepish, like he’d told her something he shouldn’t. She can practically hear Dara’s voice in her ears. _Manners, Sigrid. Remember your manners._ “Well… Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”

Still looking somewhat abashed, he retrieves his wooden sword and moves into a defensive stance. “This is how you block.”

She attempts to mirror him, and he nods. “That’s good. Stay just like that.”

And when he swings his wooden sword with exaggerated slowness, she has to ignore the instinct to flinch away and holds her position. His sword barely even taps hers but he grins like she’d blocked some mighty blow. The way he looks at her makes her smile too; a sheepish little grin that tugs at the corners of her lips. Every fibre of her being seems to scream that she should want to run away, screaming in terror, but she doesn’t – she doesn’t feel that way at all. Realising that she trusts Fíli startles her more than it should.

“Good. That’s… good.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Again?”

And so it goes, again and again he swings again with the same exaggerated slowness. Her arms ache from the strain of holding the sword out in front of her but she doesn’t let herself let up and never does Fíli. Fíli swings again, but when his sword meets hers there is more force behind it, testing her grip, like he’d expected her to have grown complacent. She grits her teeth and pushes back, forcing his sword away from hers. Again, Fíli nods, looking pleased. He gives his sword a lazy twirl and runs his fingers through his hair.

She’s distracted by a glint of gold in his hair, their wedding bead catching the light. She’d never paid much attention to it before, never really noticed how proudly he seems to wear it. It isn’t tucked away like hers, hidden amongst the rest of her hair. It hangs from a thick braid at the front of his hair for anyone to see. She doesn’t notice him swing again, not until his wooden sword is descending upon her. She stumbles back instinctively, stumbling over the uneven ground, and his sword catches her wrist. More out of surprise than anything, she gasps and her sword falls free from her grasp.

“Sigrid?” She glances up at the sound of her name, meeting Fíli’s wide-eyed gaze. Just as she opens her mouth to tell him that she’s fine, he tosses his wooden sword aside and rushes forward and gently takes hold of her wrist.  “I didn’t mean to – forgive me, I didn’t think -”

“It’s nothing, I’m fine. I should have been paying attention – I got distracted –” She winces when Fíli gently presses his thumb against the side of her wrist, checking for breaks. He doesn’t seem to hear her and so she reaches out and lays her hand over his. She squeezes his hand and draws it away from her wrist. “I’m fine, really. Nothing’s broken. Might be a little bruised tomorrow, but that’s nothing to worry about.”

She means to sound reassuring, yet Fíli steps back like she’d thrown the blame at his feet. He turns away from her and lifts his hands, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes with a low growl of frustration.

“Fíli,” she murmurs. “It’s alright, I’m not made of glass -”

Fíli lowers his hands with a heavy sigh. “I know. I know you’re not. Foolish, I know, but the thought of you… it’s -”

Sigrid pretends that his concern is not endearing, looks down at her wrist to distract herself. For a brief second, she imagines Fíli’s sword as being made of steel and not wood. She knew exactly what could have happened; how a blade could either cut through flesh like butter or hack at it like an axe at a tree. She touched her wrist, feeling the sore, throbbing area. No breaks, no spraining, just bruised.

 _Here_ , she tells herself, _I am safe._ Fíli would never hurt her. Not intentionally.

“Maybe this – maybe this isn’t a good idea.” Fíli sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“I trust you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” She murmurs when she sees a flash of guilt in his eyes.

Fíli lifts his head, looking surprised. “You do?”

When she nods, there’s something unspoken passed between them; an understanding that sets whatever doubts she’d had over the past few weeks at ease. _This can work,_ she thinks as she looks at him and sees the soft look in his eyes, _I was wrong_. Trust has never come easily to her, but she trusts him, and all those fears she’d had about them being too different fades to the back of her mind. She drops her gaze to the ground, her cheeks warm, and her fingers carefully clutch her aching wrist to her chest.

For a moment, it looks like he’s going to say something. He reaches for her but aborts the motion and curls his fingers into his palm.

“I think that’ll do for today,” he says instead. “I’ll… I’ll walk you back to Dale.”

“But we’ve barely been here an hour.” She protests and releases her hold on her wrist.

“That’s enough for today, Sigrid.” Fíli says, his tone leaving no room for argument. Unsure what to say, she follows him silently when he turns away and leaves the small arena, frowning to herself. Their weapons are left discarded in the dirt.

A pattern quickly emerges after that. Every other day she meets Fíli in the training arena and every day ends on an odd, awkward note. She doesn’t understand it; one moment, it feels as though they’re friends and the next there’s a strange sort of tension between them.

_One step forward, two steps back…_

On the fifth day, they have an audience. On the far side of the arena, Dwalin is sharpening his axe on a grinding wheel when she arrives. Fíli is already there, dragging straw targets across the dirt. She pauses for a moment, her gaze drawn to the loose white tunic he was wearing. It’s unusual to see him out of his armour and thick, heavy cloaks. But that isn’t what her gaze is drawn to. The neck of the tunic dips low… rolled up sleeves tightening around strong arms… She blinks, startled, and ducks her head to hide the flush she can feel warming her cheeks.

Fíli, fortunately, doesn’t seem to notice. He hands her her sword with a smile and she does her best to pay attention when he explains what they’ll be practicing, but her gaze continues to be inadvertently drawn to him. Briefly, the collar of his loose tunic slips, showing a scar on his shoulder, shaped like a spider’s web. An arrow wound. Her fingers twitch, feeling a strange, sudden urge to trace the scar. The battle taught her that scars are not ugly; they show that there is healing, that you survived. She wonders how many scars Fíli has, and wonders whether his body is a storybook of all the things he has survived.

“Thought it was about time you hit something other than me.” Fíli explains and she laughs.

Hitting a strawman over and over again is surprisingly therapeutic. It’s less so when she gets distracted again and misses her mark. The strawman’s head is cut clean from its shoulders and rolls across the dirt, landing at Fíli’s feet. The Dwarf blinks, looking down at the dismembered head with a startled expression before his gaze shifts back to her.

“Good. That’s – uh -” Fíli clears his throat. “Very good.”

On the other side of the arena, Dwalin rolls his eyes.

Kíli arrives soon after that, dragging his brother off to some council meeting he can’t bear to face alone, and she is left alone with Dwalin. She gives her sword a few listless swings, her gaze still focused on Fíli’s retreating figure, strangely disappointed. It hadn’t taken much to convince him to go, an unwelcome little voice in the back of her head whispers. From the other side of the small arena, Dwalin sighs heavily. She glances over her shoulder as he sets down his axe and lumbers to his feet.

“Lass,” he barks. “Come here. Leave the sword.”

Sigrid hesitates, but not for long. She lays down the sword and walks over to the scowling, tattooed Dwarf. She still isn’t particularly fond of the Master of the Guard; she tries not to let it show. “The lad’s got a good heart, but you’re wasting your time. You don’t carry a sword and an attack never comes when you expect it. You know what wins a fight? A good punch to the nose. Or the jambags.”

The gruff Dwarf glowers when she has to press her lips together to stop herself from laughing. Dwalin holds up his hand and gestures for her to make a swing at it. She hesitates, glancing down at her hand as her fingers curl into her palm. Dwalin drops his hand with a sigh.

“Not like that, lass. Keep your thumb on the outside or you’ll end up doing more harm to yourself. Make sure your wrist is straight as well. Didn’t your father teach you any of this?” Dwalin asks with a disapproving look and holds up his hand again.

“He tried.” She admits. “I didn’t see the point in it. I suppose you think I was being soft?”

“Aye,” Dwalin says and she half-heartedly punches the Dwarf’s open hand. Dwalin scowls, looking unimpressed. She hits him again, harder this time, with her knuckles instead of the flats of her fingers. “Doesn’t mean you’re weak though. It takes courage, being soft.”

She falters mid-swing, surprised. She hadn’t expected that, not from a Dwarf.

“Get someone with an upward blow to nose then knee ‘em in the groin. That’s how you’ll win a fight. But still, it’s important to learn how to throw a damn decent punch.” Dwalin tells her and gestures for her to hit his hand again. She grits her teeth and hits him again. He grunts, unimpressed. “Keep your hands up, lass, level with your shoulders.”

It feels like a small victory when the Dwarf finally shakes his hand, his palm red.

“You should carry a dagger, hide it in your skirts.  Fíli’ll give you one, he has plenty to spare. See, your best advantage in a fight is surprise. Anyone would talk one look at you and think you’re an easy target. Prove them wrong, eh?” Dwalin says and crosses his arms over his chest, his usual scowl returning to his features. “Now stop your moping and go bother someone else.”

She smiles to herself. “Thank you, Mister Dwalin.”

Sigrid walks away from the arena, clutching her hand. Her knuckles are sore, the skin around them red and angry. She retrieves her coat and long travelling cloak and shrugs them on as she leaves. The long hall outside of the arena is empty and her footsteps echo loudly off the thick stone walls. This part of the kingdom, with the King and his household’s private arena, forge and armoury, is quiet – too quiet for her liking. Long tapestries line the walls, depicting Dwarven history. Most feature Dwarves triumphing over Elves, something she imagines entertains King Thorin.

Ordinarily, Fíli walks her back to Dale, so her guards know not to wait for her. She knows that, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that there’s no one waiting at the gates for her, but an uneasy feeling washes over her all the same. The road to Dale – one which she walks almost daily – suddenly seems impossibly long. The sky is dark with the promise of rain and the ground is covered in a thick, fresh layer of snow. She hesitates, afraid for reasons she can’t explain and looks over her shoulder at the grizzly, unfamiliar guard who watches her with a raised brow.

She knows the path between Dale and the mountain like the back of her hand, but she hasn’t walked it alone. Not since…

“M’lady, d’you need me to fetch someone?” The guard asks from behind her and she looks back at him, hesitating.

Waiting for someone to walk with her feels like admitting defeat. She doesn’t want to feel like a coward.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.” Sigrid shakes her sore hand and forces her legs to move. The wind is harsh and biting, blowing in from the north. She shivers and lifts the hood of her cloak, glad of the soft fur lining the edges. The smaller rivers running off of the mountain are already frozen solid, it won’t be long before the river running past Ravenhill freezes over as well. She looks up at the tower, remembering the sound of the horns and the signal-post. Somewhere up there, Fíli almost died.

She quickly looks away, focusing her gaze ahead.

Her father won’t be happy with her, will insist on a horse or that she stay home. And it won’t be long before the weather confines her to either Dale or the mountain, meaning her time with Fíli is – sadly – short-lived. Making it almost… precious to her. She cannot conquer her fears on her own. She needs him; he is the only one she trusts to help her through. Asking anyone of Dale would risk her father hearing word of it. It is an unnecessary worry she will save him from if she can. He has enough to worry about as it is.

Snow covers every inch of the ground now. No more forget-me-nots peeking out of the grass, no pesky stinging nettle, just white snow as far as the eye can see. The tip of her nose is numb and her cheeks are flushed pink once she eventually reaches Dale. The city is quiet, the markets closed for the day. She imagines that in the coming days, the city will come alive again with Yule decorations. It will be the first in Dale, the year before they had still lived in rubble and under the cloud of grief, and not many had been in the mood for celebration.

She shakes the snow from the bottom of her cloak and stamps her feet before she enters the house, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips when she hears Bard and Tilda’s voices the moment she steps through the door. Sigrid hangs up her cloak and coat and rubs the feeling back into her cold hands. A warm feeling spreads through her chest when she walks through to the living room and sees Tilda struggling with some embroidery  and Bard stood in front of the hearth, laughing.

“Sigrid!” Tilda calls at the sight of her, looking relieved. She waves her embroidery over her head and huffs, blowing away a lock of hair which had fallen over her eyes. “Help! Da’s making me make some silly thing for Miss Hilda and my stitches are all crooked.”

“It’s not silly,” Bard chides fondly. “You promised her you would and -”

“-I must keep my word. I know.” Tilda finishes for him, but her gaze drops to the sewing on her lap and she sighs. “It’s hopeless.”

“It isn’t. Let me see.” Sigrid says, and tugs her hair from its loose braid as she joins her sister on the rug in front of the fire. Tilda passes the embroidery to her and pulls a face when Sigrid smirks slightly. She recovers quickly, biting her lip to stop herself from smiling. “It’s not hopeless. Anyway, it’s the thought that counts. I’m sure Miss Hilda won’t mind if your stitches are a little crooked.”

“You’ve always been better at this than me. Can’t you do it for me? Please?”

“You’ll never learn if I keep doing it for you.” Sigrid says, rolling her eyes when Tilda pouts. Sigrid catches sight of Bard shaking his head, smiling to himself, before he leaves the room, headed towards the kitchen. She leans in close, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Tilda’s head before she stands. “It helps if you draw it first. Try that, and show me when you’re finished.”

“Why’s Hilda making Tilda sew?” She asks as she follows her father into the kitchen. “She must know how much she hates it.”

“It was Tilda’s idea, actually. Her way of saying thank you for Hilda teaching her some of her trade.”

Sigrid raises a brow, bemused. “Tilda wants to become a merchant?”

“It seems so.” Bard shrugs. “She seems to have gone off on the idea of becoming Queen of the Woodland Realm.”

“Oh, indeed.” Sigrid hums, smiling as she ties an apron around her waist. “Whoever would wish to be queen of all those Elves?”

“Careful, love.” Bard laughs. “You’re beginning to sound like a Dwarf.”

Sometime later, when her father is filleting fish at the table and she is dropping chopped vegetables into a pot of bubbling water, there is a knock at the front door. It takes them both a moment to react, both surprised. Sigrid glances at her father, who frowns, before she cleans her hands on the apron tied to her front and tells him she’ll go answer it. She isn’t sure who she expects – only that it’ll most likely be someone wanting to speak to her father about something or other – so it comes as a surprise to see Fíli stood on her doorstep.

Almost at once, she finds herself smiling.

“This is a surprise.” She says before her smile falters, shifting to concern. “Is – is everything alright?”

Fíli smiles sheepishly, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Everything’s fine. I just… needed to make sure you were alright.”

 _Needed, not wanted._ There’s a difference. Her lip twitches and she opens the door wider.

“Would you like to come in? We’re just about to have dinner.”

Fíli’s brows lift a fraction, looking surprised. “I shouldn’t – I wouldn’t want to impose -”

“You wouldn’t be,” she insists. Sigrid takes a step back, gesturing for him to come in. Fíli smiles slightly, his expression still somewhat sheepish, before he follows her into the house, hanging his coat beside hers.

As she turns away, about to return to the kitchen, his hand shoots out and grasps her arm. She looks back, gaze falling to his hand as it slides down her arm until it reaches her hand. His fingers are cold and calloused but unfailingly gentle as they wrap around hers, his thumb lightly running over her knuckles. Her hand is sore, her knuckles tender, but that isn’t why she shivers.

“I’m sorry I left you today.” He says very quietly, staring intently down at their hands.

“It’s alright, I know you didn’t have a choice.” She tells him and then grins. “Mister Dwalin showed me how to throw a punch.”

Fíli lifts his gaze, smiling. “You’ll have to show me that tomorrow.”

“Sigrid?” Bard calls from the kitchen. “Who’s at the door?”

Fíli glances in the direction of her father’s voice, his expression endearingly apprehensive - as if her _Da_ is someone he needs to be wary of. She smiles to herself and gives his hand a gentle tug, pulling him along behind her as she makes her way back into the kitchen. Bard looks up when they walk into the room and pauses.

“Da, Fíli will be joining us for dinner.” She tells him, supressing a smile when she notices that Fíli’s gaze is immediately drawn to the large filleting knife in her father’s hands. Bard cocks a brow, looking suspicious and she scowls, silently warning him not to say anything. “We have enough for one more person, right?”

“Aye, we do. More than enough. ” Bard says and glances at Fíli with a small smile. “It’s good to see you again, Prince Fíli. We haven’t seen much of you up in these parts as of late. Did you have business in Dale?”

Fíli rubs the nape of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Ah, no. Not really. Not official business, anyway.”

“Why don’t I show you through to the living room?” She suggests and the grateful smile he shoots her warms her cheeks with a faint flush. They’re still holding hands, she realises when they walk into the living room and a look of surprise crosses Tilda’s features. Sigrid lets go of his hand, embarrassed, and glances over her shoulder, noticing her brother’s absence for the first time. “Tilda, where’s Bain?”

“With Percy and the others. He has guard duty.” Tilda replies with a small sigh, looking as pleased about it as Sigrid feels. The two sisters both frown, of the same mind about their brother training to become a soldier. Sigrid knows that Bain will be king one day and that he will have to be able to defend his people, and yet he is still her little brother. He will _always_ be her little brother - too young to be swinging a sword and bearing so much weight on his shoulders…

“I have something for you.” Fíli murmurs when Tilda scurries off, mumbling something about setting the table. He reaches into the breast pocket on his tunic and pulls a small wooden carving. A carving of a fish. “It’s from Bifur,” he explains and gently presses it into her palm. There are runes on the side. She traces them with her finger.

“These runes,” she wonders. “What do they mean?”

“It’s… difficult to translate, I don’t really know the word for it.” Fíli tells her, looking down at the little carving thoughtfully. “I suppose it says ‘courage’,” he says and smiles softly. “A quiet sort of courage… Gentle, and kind.”

“Fíli –” Sigrid begins, with no notion of what she is about to say. All she knows is that she has to say _something._ He looks up, meeting her gaze at last, and whatever she was about to say is forgotten. His eyes are so very blue, with little flecks of brown she has never noticed before. For her to see that – they’re very close all of a sudden, she realises with a jolt. She draws back, curls her fingers around the carving, and tucks it into her pocket. “I should – we should see if – if supper is ready.” She says, all the while scolding herself internally.

Sigrid turns away, wringing her hands as she flees back into the kitchen. It takes Fíli a moment to follow her. He doesn’t look at her once he walks into the kitchen and she grimaces, wondering if she’s somehow misstepped again and insulted him without meaning to. She’s not given much time to think about it; her father announces that dinner is ready and they all walk through into the dining room.

“Sigrid, what happened to your hand?” Tilda asks when Sigrid reaches out to take the bowl of mixed vegetables from her.

“It’s nothing.” She says, not ready to admit to her family what exactly she’s been up to. She’s never lied to them before, and it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. “Had a bit of an accident early, that’s all. I – um – tripped and knocked my hand on the wall.”

Tilda frowns, looking unconvinced. “Does it hurt?”

“No, it doesn’t hurt.” She says, avoiding her gaze. “So, what’s this about you becoming a merchant?” She asks, changing the subject.

Tilda takes the bait and launches into a story. It’s delightfully detailed and exaggerated, as Tilda’s stories always are. It’s something she’s always envied, how easily her sister can talk about anything under the sun and never find herself lost for words. Her father had always said Tilda was a born diplomat, if only she wasn’t so incredibly stubborn. It makes her feel inexplicably warm and proud to hear Fíli laughing at something Tilda says, and she glances at him out of the corner of her eye, smiling to herself.

This dinner is far more pleasant than the last they’d spent together. No one cries or argues, so already it is a step above dinner with Gared’s parents. Tilda overcomes whatever lingering shyness she had around Fíli and asks him about Kíli and Tauriel’s wedding plans, looking positively delighted when he tells her that the Elves will be coming back for it. Her father behaves for once; he doesn’t shoot her any infuriatingly knowingly looks whenever he catches her looking at Fíli and doesn’t make any thinly veiled threats towards the Dwarf.

The only thing that is amiss – a quiet, traitorous voice whispers – is that a part of her wishes she was brave enough to reach out and grab Fíli’s hand under the table, as he had done that night at Gunnar and Gerda’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soo, i'm sorry if it feels like it ends quite abruptly. this chapter was just getting super long so i decided to split it, so the next chapter will continue from where this left off. it's been a really long wait for this, and i'm so sorry, buuut to make it up to you i'm going to post the next chapter tomorrow :) hopefully that'll make up for me being so sporadic with updates.
> 
> thank you so much for all the support on this, i'm always quite anxious about my writing and you're all so nice, so thank you so so much. it really means a lot when i read your comments and see the kudos and bookmarks and such <3 and as always, this is un-betaed and i'm a dreadful proofreader so if you notice any mistakes please let me know :)
> 
> i was inspired by two quotes when writing this, that both remind me a lot of sigrid's character. "Softness is not weakness. It takes courage to stay delicate in a world this cruel." & "Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I’ll try again tomorrow’.”


	15. Chapter 15

In some ways, it is as if nothing has changed. Their house may be grander, but in their hearts they’re still the same people they once were. They live simply; they have no need for servants. She knows Fíli well enough to know that he understands that, and that he was a Prince in nothing but name for a very long time. But her father doesn’t know that, and he raises his eyebrows, surprised and suspicious all at once, when Fíli insists on clearing the table and doing the washing up. Sigrid rolls her eyes at her father’s expression and follows Fíli into the kitchen.

“You really don’t have to do this,” she says as she walks into the kitchen. “You’re a guest.”

“They’re just dishes, Sigrid. You’re not asking me to scale the Black Gates.” Fíli looks over his shoulder at her with a lopsided grin, up to his elbows in soapy dish water. She purses her lips, about to argue, and his expression softens. “I don’t mind. It’s the least I can do. You should go sit down, join your family. This won’t take long.”

She frowns at that and strides forward to lean over him, reaching for the dishcloth. When he turns, trying to snatch it back from her, she holds it over her head. He claps his soapy hand over his heart, looking betrayed. “Using my own height against me, I never thought I’d see the day.”

Fíli tries to lunge for it and somehow ends up sending water everywhere. There are soapsuds in his hair and Sigrid laughs, like she hasn’t done in a long time. She laughs until it hurts, until she has lean against the counter for support and wipe tears from her eyes. Fíli chooses that moment to snatch the dishcloth from her and she dissolves into laughter again at the sight of his ridiculously triumphant expression.

“Alright, alright. You win.” She says, but she doesn’t move; she doesn’t re-join her family as he had suggested. Fíli looks far too pleased with himself for his own good, he returns to the dishes, grinning smugly. She leans against the counter beside the sink, idly playing with the strings of her apron. She can hear her father and Tilda talking in the other room but only half pays attention to them.

The front door to the house opens and slams shut a moment later, startling her out of her thoughts. Bain walks into the kitchen, nose red, with his hair and clothes covered in snow. There’s a cut on his cheek that her gaze is immediately drawn to.

“I’m fine.” Bain grins, knowing her too well. “Nothing to make a fuss about. Training just gets a little rough sometimes. Did I miss dinner?”

“Yes, but there’s some leftovers for you on the table. You should get some warm clothes on first before you-” Bain is already gone, walking through into the dining room before she can finish her sentence. She looks back at Fíli with an exasperated sigh and he flashes her a grin, looking amused. “Little brothers,” she grumbles, “do they ever listen?”

“I don’t know. My mum always says that Kíli has ‘selective hearing.” Fíli tells her as he finishes off the last of the dishes. “There was this one day – my Uncle was working in his forge and Mum was away, meeting with some guild leaders about… something – and so it was just Kíli and me. We were supposed to say home, keep out of trouble, but someone told Kíli you could see the whole world from the top of this big tree and so – naturally - he wanted to climb it. I told him no, he was too little and would only end up hurting himself. But he wouldn’t listen, so I went up first and helped him up to the top. Turns out you couldn’t really see anything from the top, just the trees… But it was worth it.”

She smiles, so easily picturing it in her head. Little Kíli, always getting into trouble, but always having his big brother there to look after him.

“I should probably head back to the mountain, before the snow gets any worse.” He suddenly says, clearing his throat. The air between them feels awkward, like she’d said the wrong thing or overstepped again. “Thank for having me, please tell your father –”

Even though he makes no sign of leaving just yet, she reaches out and grabs the sleeve of his shirt to stop him. “You can’t walk all the way back to the mountain in the dark and in the middle of a blizzard! Did you see Bain?”

“No, I - uh, wouldn’t want to impose. We Dwarves are tougher than you think, a little snow won’t hurt me-”

“Please.” She cuts in. It’s a dirty trick, but she hopes it’ll work on him. Saying ‘pretty please’ and batting her eyelashes has always gotten Tilda what she wants. “If you go now, I’ll worry. You wouldn’t be imposing. You can have my room, I usually share with Tilda anyway.”

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.” Fíli says but she can see his resolve beginning to waver.

“You won’t be,” she insists and gives his sleeve a playful tug. “Dwarves aren’t the only ones who can be stubborn.”

Fíli ducks his head and grins. “I’m beginning to see that.”

 

* * *

 

There is a grandfather clock in the corridor outside Tilda’s bedroom. The tall, yew clock is older than she is; one of the only pieces of furniture to survive all the long years after Dale’s destruction. She lies awake for a long time, sleeping evading her, and stares at the curtains on the four-poster bed, listening to the clock’s hands tick. Every hour, on the hour, the clock chimes. She’s been awake for two chimes of the clock.

As tired as she is, sleep doesn’t seem to be possible. If she isn’t stealing the blankets or jabbing her in the ribs with her sharp elbows, Tilda is kicking her. And like clockwork, Tilda shifts in her sleep and drags the blankets even more off of Sigrid. Sigrid tugs the blanket back and her sister mutters unhappily in her sleep. The tug-of-war has been going on all night. Sigrid rolls onto her back with a groan, glowering up at the ceiling. Of course the one night where Tilda is unconsciously making sleep impossible for her is the night when her bed is occupied.  

When Tilda rolls onto her side and kicks her in the shin, Sigrid sits up with a heavy sigh, knowing she’ll never get any sleep if she stays where she is. But the beds in the guest rooms aren’t made up and haven’t had a fire burning in the hearth for most of the day, and the couches downstairs are too small, too uncomfortable to sleep on. Bain sprawls out too much in his sleep, always has done, and takes up the entire bed. And her father wakes up at the crack of dawn every morning and without meaning to, would end up waking her up too.

Leaving only one option…

Sigrid hesitates before she swings her legs over the side of the bed. Sharing a bed with Fíli isn’t the same thing as sharing one with her father or her siblings. It might mean something else to him; it might suggest that she has less than innocent intentions, and that he can take certain liberties… But then she remembers that she trusts him and knows he’d never make her do anything she didn’t want to do, and so Sigrid slips out of bed with a sigh. The floor is cold under her bare feet as she tiptoes out of the room.

The grandfather clock climes as she slips out of the room and closes the door behind her.

Her room is at the end of the hallway. Tilda’s room overlooks the garden while Sigrid’s faces the lake. It gets the most sun in the morning and has a terrace she plans to line with plant pots once springtime comes. She hesitates outside her room, thinking about what kinds of plants she’d plant to distract herself from the flutter of nerves in the pit of her stomach. It’s just _Fíli_ , she tells herself. Nothing to be afraid of…

Sigrid knocks first, lightly rapping her knuckles against the wood before she cracks open the door.

“Fíli?” She whispers as she peeks into the room. In the dark, she can barely make him out. “Are you awake?”

His reply comes almost at once. “I’m awake. Are – are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she whispers back. “I couldn’t sleep – I was wondering if – if I could -”

“Oh.” Fíli sounds surprised. A moment later she hears the bed creak and sees him sit up. “Of course. I can sleep on the floor. ”

“You don’t – you don’t have to sleep on the floor. But I can, if you want me to -”

Fíli wordlessly lifts the blankets, a clear invitation, and she smiles faintly. She opens the door wider, stepping into the room before her nerves get the better of her. The door creaks loudly as she closes it behind her. She’s a bundle of nerves, painfully aware of her every move as she slowly climbs into bed. She settles on the very edge of the bed, and Fíli slowly turns onto his side, lying so that he’s facing her. In the dark, she can barely make out his features but that doesn’t make her any less aware of him. It takes all her self-control not to curl into Fíli’s side and into the warmth he’s radiating. She doesn’t understand how someone can be so warm – it’s like lying next to a furnace.

“You couldn’t sleep?” He asks quietly, with a touch of concern in his voice.

“Tilda kept kicking me and stealing the blankets.” She whispers and he laughs quietly under his breath. “Did I wake you?”

“No, you didn’t wake me. I was… thinking.” He answers after a moment, sighing. “Do you remember your mother?” The question is unexpected, not at all what she’d expected him to say, and it catches her by surprise. Fíli seems to misread her silence for something other than surprise and curses under his breath. “I didn’t – I’m sorry - you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I remember her,” she murmurs, lips twisting ruefully. “Not everything. I used to be so afraid that I’d forget her. I used to stare at this drawing I had of her, trying to remember exactly what she looked like… But I still remember her smile and the stories she used to read to me before bed and how she always used to sing… and that’s enough, I suppose.”

“What was she like?” Fíli asks, not tiptoeing around the subject of her mother the way most people do.

“She was very beautiful, with the same eyes as Tilda. And she was… kind and gentle, I don’t remember her ever losing her temper with us. She’d always make things better, no matter how bad they seemed.” She tells him, her smile bittersweet, and Fíli hums thoughtfully.

“She sounds a lot like you then.” Fíli says, his voice soft, like a caress. The compliment is offhanded, said like it's nothing. It's a sweet thought, to think herself like her mother.  Sweet - but untrue. “I don’t remember my father.”

“What happened to him?” She asks carefully, whispering still.

“There was a mining accident. He was visiting his brother and the tunnel collapsed. I think I must have been fourteen or fifteen…”

Sigrid unconsciously shifts a little closer when his voice drops back to a whisper, “Sometimes I think I might remember him, but I don’t know what’s real and what’s a dream. My mother won’t talk about him – everything I know is from the few things Uncle has told me. And that isn’t much, all he will ever tell me was that he was a good man, but a terrible smith. That must be where Kíli gets it from…”

“Why doesn’t your mother ever talk about him?”

“The way Dwarves love… once found, it never goes away. There can never be another, and so the pain doesn’t really ever go away…” Fíli sounds so sad; she wonders whether it’s not just his mother and her grief that he’s talking about.

“Never?” She breathes, unsure why it unnerves her so much. “Never is an awfully long time.”

“It is the way we are. The way we’ve always been. That’s where the stories come from - that Mahal created us by splitting two souls in half. The stories say that we Dwarves live so long so that we can find that other piece of our soul and be one.”

“Kíli mentioned something like that once… He said the braids he was wearing showed that he had found his One.” Sigrid frowns, remembering. She’d been troubled about it at the time, not really understanding what it was, while wondering why she and Fíli didn’t share the same braids.

“Some people put too much stock in stories.” Fíli chides, with an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “These days most declare someone to be their One in the hope that they will be allowed to marry, if there are extenuating circumstances surrounding their relationship. But Kíli believes in the stories, believes that he was made to love Tauriel… And my Uncle – I fear he’s the same.”

“Your uncle believes that Bilbo is his One?”

“Aye, I’m certain he believes that. It’s as if… as if his heart went with Bilbo when he left.” Fíli’s hand sits in the space between them. It takes him sighing, the sound too melancholy for her to bare, for her to reach out and take hold of it. His hand is warm and calloused and encompasses hers, and it never ceases to amaze her how well they fit together.  “I’m sorry,” Fíli says and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “You must be tired. You don’t have to humour me, don’t let me keep you awake.”

“You’re not.” Sigrid says, but a small yawn escapes her. “I like this… talking to you…”

“So do I.” He murmurs, his voice deep and soft and soothing. “But I’ll still be here in the morning, if you like.”

She hums, her eyelids already feeling heavy. She doesn’t want to fall asleep; it feels as if they’re in their own little world here, with no one watching and with no expectations. It’s easier to talk to him like this, when she’s not constantly unsure about herself and what she feels, and she’s not tripping over her words and struggling to make sense. She wants to tell him that, but it’s almost painful trying to keep her eyes open. So she gives his hand one last squeeze with the last bit of consciousness she can muster, hoping it’s enough, and falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

For the first time in a long time, Sigrid doesn’t dream.

When she wakes the next morning, the warmth surrounding her is the first thing that registers. She’s grown used to waking up either in a cold bed in the mountain that’s far too big for her or with Tilda pressed up against her, digging her elbows into her sides. She’s not used to waking up so warm and comfortable; it nearly sends her falling back to sleep. Sigrid opens her eyes, blinking blearily. The sun is peaking through the gap between the curtains, throwing soft beams of light into the room. And Fíli –

_Oh._

So much for sleeping on the very edge of the bed. Somehow, in her sleep, they’d ended up far close together than she’d anticipated. Fíli is lying his back, breathing deeply, with his arm wrapped loosely around her, while Sigrid - she’d somehow ended up with her head on his chest, just above his heart. Her arm is curled around his torso and his other hand resting next to hers on his stomach. She remembers that they’d falling asleep holding hands and it makes her wonder if they’d still been holding hands in their sleep.

She can feel his cheek resting against the top of her head, his breath brushing against her hair. It feels so intimate; she shivers as she starts to carefully draw herself away. As she lifts her arm, about to roll away, Fíli makes a quiet, grumbled noise in his sleep and tightens his grip on her. His breathing evens out again when she stills and she lies there, tense, and unsure what to do.

On the one hand, she’s comfortable and _warm_ and hasn’t slept so well in longer than she can remember, while on the other… Sigrid knows she should move, or at least wake Fíli up, because he’s her _friend,_ not matter what the matching rings on their fingers tell the rest of the world.

She lifts her head off of his shoulder, smiling softly at how peaceful he looks. His moustache is all askew, and there’s a lock of hair hanging across his face that her fingers twitch towards, wanting to gently brush it away. It takes her by surprise how much she wants this moment to last. It’s the ferocity of that urges her to sits up carefully, detangling herself from him. She slips out of bed, pressing her cold fingers to her flushed cheeks, and Fíli makes another unhappy noise in his sleep, rolling into the space on the bed where she had been. She flees the room as quickly and as quietly as she can, hoping to get back into bed with Tilda before anyone notices anything amiss.

It doesn’t help, of course, that she runs into her father the moment she steps out of the door.

“Da!” She exclaims in surprise and Bard catches her by the shoulders when she stumbles. “I didn’t – I wasn’t -”

“Darling, you don’t need to explain. Actually, as your father, I’d prefer if you didn’t.” Bard says and she squeezes her eyes closed, mortified. Bard chuckles at her expression and ducks his head to kiss her forehead before he releases his hold on her shoulders. “I have business in the Great Hall in an hour. You can join me, if you like. I’d appreciate your input. Unless – unless you need to -”

When he grimaces and gestures at the closed door behind her, she longs for the ground to open up and swallow her. “Goodness, no. Whatever you’re thinking, _no._ I’d like to join you, I just need a moment to get ready. Do you need a hand with breakfast?”

“No, darling. I’ll sort out breakfast. Let Fíli know where you’re going, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to wake up not knowing where you are.” Bard says and departs with a fond, yet weary look as he glances from her to her bedroom door and then back.

She takes a deep breath before she walks back into her room, gathering her courage. The door creaks – sounding impossibly loud – and she winces when she sees Fíli sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He smiles when his gaze lands on her, his expression open, albeit still a little sleepy. She smiles back sheepishly, nervously fiddling with the end of her plait as she crosses the room and sits down at the foot of the bed.

“Morning.” Fíli says, his voice rough with sleep.

“Sleep well?” She asks, for lack of anything better to say. “I hope I didn’t wake you – that stupid door -”

“Aye, I slept well.” Fíli replies, smoothing his hand over his moustache. He avoids her gaze, looking almost… _nervous_. “Truly, I haven’t slept so well in a long time. I didn’t dream about the battle or – or any of that. That hasn’t happened… not for months…”

“You dream about the battle as well?” She asks, surprised, and he nods. She remembers telling him about her nightmares when they went to the lake together and wonders why he never said anything. It gives her some comfort though, knowing she’s not alone. And that they were both able to sleep without having bad dreams is… _interesting_. It’s something for her to think about later, in any case.

“There’s something I need to do with my Da – some business in the Great Hall – it shouldn’t take too long, but I thought you ought to know... There’s – um – breakfast downstairs if you’d like it. Will you be here when I get back? Not that I wouldn’t like you to, but don’t feel as though you have to…” She trails off, realising that she’s rambling, and scowls when she sees how amused Fíli looks. _Stop fussing,_ she can practically hear Bain saying in her ear. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’re a guest, I’m allowed to make a fuss -”

“It’s not that.” Fíli interrupts her before she can go off on another tangent, his expression softening. “I’m just glad to see you.”

“You’re -” Flustered, she doesn’t know what to say. “You – but I only – I don’t -”

Fíli laughs to himself, looking at her like her inability to speak is _endearing._

“I can wait for you here, if you like. I haven’t any pressing business in Erebor and I thought - perhaps we can train together when you get back? You can show me your mean right hook.” He suggests and she grins, nodding, even though the thought of leaving him here in her _bed_ makes her stumble mid-step as she leaves the room to get ready. The thought leaves her feeling confused, and unsure what to make of it.   

What confusing – _confounding -_ creatures Dwarves are, she decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit shorter than the others but it's almost 3am and i reaaally wanted to get this posted today. hopefully it's not too short :) and yes, i added a line from peter pan. i just couldn't help myself.
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed this chapter <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a warning, there is some implied domestic violence towards a background character/a brief discussion about it.

Sigrid almost doesn’t recognise Dale under the deep blanket of snow that had fallen in the night.

A cold wind whips through her hair, feeling icy on her cheeks as she walks arm in arm with her father. She longs for the warmth she’d woken up to; even under multiple layers of clothes, the cold seems to seep into her bones. A quiet voice in the back of her head whispers that maybe the road to Erebor will be too difficult to traverse on foot. Nervous butterflies flutter in her stomach at the thought of Fíli staying another night. Tilda will want to make a snowman, Sigrid thinks – distracting herself from any thoughts about Fíli - as she looks around her at the thick layer of white snow covering almost every inch of the city. The Yule decorations will look so pretty with all the snow.

Yuletide hadn’t been much cause for celebration in Laketown. The winter solstice marked the middle of winter, a time when her people had struggled the most. Fishing grew difficult once the lake began to freeze over and the hunters had so often returned home emptyhanded. More than once they’d had to depend upon the Elves for charity. She remembers one winter, it had been longer and harsher than most. Her father hadn’t been able to work his barge for months and the Master barred his doors when the town began to starve. It makes Sigrid breathe a little easier, knowing things will never come to that again. Life for her people will never be so bad again, not with her father as King.

Knowing that the Dwarves don’t celebrate the Yule, at least not in the same manner that her people do, she decides to invite Fíli to the festivities. It will be beneficial for her people to see them together as a united force. Those who still look upon the Dwarves and their mountain with disdain will – hopefully – be more open-minded about such things if they meet Fíli, a Dwarf who is nothing like how they imagine Dwarves to be. She can only hope that someone doesn’t get too carried away with the mistletoe.

“I was surprised to see Fíli last night _._ ” Bard all of a sudden says, his conversational tone conflicting with the grim expression on his face. “He’s a good lad, more level-headed than his Uncle. But you’re my daughter, so maybe I ought to give him a bit of a scare, make a few threats about what I’d do if he so much as harms a hair on your head.”

“Da!” She chides, though an amused grin tugs at her lips. “I don’t think it’ll be very good for diplomacy if you start threatening King Thorin’s heir.”

When Bard hums, sounding unperturbed, she elbows him in the side. Whatever threat she is about to make dies on her tongue when she catches sight of Percy and several others she doesn’t recognise, stood on the steps outside of the Great Hall, waiting from them. They bow as her father approaches, something his lips twist unhappily about.  

“They’re here to petition the king,” Bard quietly explains. “I’ve explained to them that I am not yet King, but they don’t seem to want to listen. I thought you’d like to sit in, see how it’s done. Should the need arise I’d like for you to take my place.”

She blinks in surprise. “Why me? What about Bain?”

“Diplomacy isn’t… well, it’s not his strong suit. Not yet, at least. No while he still thinks he can shoot arrows at his problems to make them go away.” Bard says with a wry smile that soon grows serious, his gaze thoughtful as it takes in the Great Hall. “The King’s Court shall be a place where any can seek justice or have their voice be heard. I do not wish to be like the Master, turning a blind eye to my people’s problems.”

Inside the Great Hall, two large ornate chairs have been replaced on the dais for them. The tables have been pushed against the walls, leaving the room open. Her father takes a seat and she sits down beside him after a moment of hesitation. Percy stands to the side of the dais, announcing the commencement of the King’s Court and calling forth the first case. She clasps her hands together on her lap, fascinated with the proceedings.

The first man brings forward a petty dispute between himself and his neighbour, something which her father tells them to resolve – _peacefully -_ amongst themselves. The second matter is far sweeter, a young couple, both who lost their parents in the battle, seeking permission to wed in the springtime. The third and fourth matters are about housing restoration. The fifth is more troubling. Something she had not been aware of.

“My lord, I wish to bring a matter to your attention about the Merchant Guild.” A young woman Sigrid is not familiar with says, and her father waves his hand as if to say ‘go on’. The woman nods her head jerkily, nervously clutching her skirts as she continues. “There’s a bunch of them. They – they decided amongst themselves to dictate prices. Give discounts to those who give coin to the Guild, will charge extra to those who don’t. Won’t sell to Dwarves or anyone not from ‘round here.”

Bard straightens, glancing across at Sigrid with a frown. “You have proof of this?”

“Aye, m’lord, I do. Seen it with my own eyes every day. I work a small stall, selling fishing lines and nets. I would’ve come to you sooner but my husband, he’s a part of their lot. If he found out -” The woman shudders and Sigrid meets her father’s gaze, troubled over the fear in the woman’s voice. Under the Master’s rule, there had been no law against a man striking his wife. She wonders how clear her father and his council have made it that such a rule – or lack thereof – has been amended.

“These people,” Bard gently presses. “What are their names?”

“Willem Mormont – my husband. Tomas the butcher. Brandt and some of the other fishermen – though I’m not sure which.  But Evette Alaldsen is their leader, my lord. They wouldn’t be doing any of this if not for her. Just this morning, I saw her spit in a man’s face for even _suggesting_ trading with outsiders.” The young woman tells them, her hands trembling when she releases her white-knuckle grip on her skirts.

“Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention. It is troubling indeed.” Bard says, his expression deep in throat. Percy thanks the woman as well, dismissing her, and calls forth the next person. The young woman bows, looking ready to make a swift exit from the hall. Sigrid finds herself rising to her feet and a hush falls over the hall.

“A moment,” she calls out to the young woman. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with you in private.”

The poor woman looks terrified. “Of – of course, my lady.”

Sigrid wordlessly guides the young woman out of the hall, into a private room where the hearth is lit and large windows look out at the mountain and the plains. The room serves as the council’s meeting place, the winter’s chill bringing them in front the large terrace out the back of the hall where they usually meet. The room has been cleared, but there is a bench positioned in front of the hearth. She takes a seat and gestures for the young woman to sit down beside her. Up close, she’s younger than Sigrid had presumed. She looks the same age as Sigrid, maybe a few years older. She has a pretty, albeit gaunt face, and reddish-blonde hair that nearly reaches her hips.

“What’s your name? I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Isolde, my lady. I – I know your sister. Princess Tilda is always kind to me.”

“She’s told me about you.” Sigrid smiles. “Said she’d never seen such detailed fishing flies.”

Isolde flushes, quietly dismissing the praise, and Sigrid feels her smile falter. She remembers why she had asked her to speak with her and bites her lip, unsure how to proceed. It feels as if there’s an ever presence struggle between who she’s seen as – Lady Sigrid, Princess of Dale - and who she really is. Which is just… Sigrid; the barge-man’s daughter, who grew up poor like everyone else, and who hadn’t had to wrap herself in courtesies and think about _politics_ when trying to help someone _._

“Your husband…” She begins, carefully. “Is he unkind to you?”

When Isolde doesn’t answer, Sigrid reaches out and gently touches her hand. Isolde’s hand is cold, trembling. “You are a citizen of Dale. You are under my father’s protection. No harm will come to you, not from your husband, or any man, without facing the King’s justice. I promise.”

“He’s not a bad man, my lady, but he struggles. He lost everything when the dragon came, and it’s left him… angry. He needs someone to blame. But – but I wish no harm on him. You have to understand, I’d have nothing if not for him. So please – my lady, I beg you – let nothing come of this conversation. I am… touched by your concern, but please – _please -_ let it be.” And with that, Isolde stands. She curtsies shakily and Sigrid can only watch, distressed, as the young woman flees the room.

Sigrid curls her hands into fists around her skirts, mulling over their conversation for a long time.

Eventually, the door opens and her father peers in the room. The concern in his expression tells her how long she’s been sitting there, and so she musters up a smile and gets to the feet. She wordlessly follows him back into the hall, which is quiet now and restored to its previous state. The tables are in the centre of the room and the chairs are gone from the dais. Sigrid takes her father’s arm and leans into his side.

“Sorry I missed the rest of the court.” She murmurs as they leave the hall.

“Don’t be. You didn’t miss anything of consequence.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Isolde lives, would you?” Sigrid asks, an idea springing to mind as they cross the snowy courtyard. Bard tells her and she hums thoughtfully, puzzling out her next move. She barely notices when they reach their house, only realising she’s stood the front doorstep when Bard unloops their arms to open the door. She follows her father into the house, shrugging off of her coat.

“When you visit Isolde, bring Jon and Brynjolf with you.” Bard says, knowing her well enough to say _when_ and not _if._ She nods and Bard smiles, ducking his head to kiss her cheek. “I have a meeting with some of the farmers. I’ll be back around lunch-time.”

After her father leaves, she closes the door behind him and leans against it for a moment. She can’t stop thinking about Isolde and what she said. Both about her husband and the matter of the Merchant Guild. It feels like with every step forward there’s always three steps back. Her people aren’t afraid of the Dwarves and their mountain anymore, but now some have taken it upon themselves to exclude them. Sigrid lifts her head at a loud _thud_ from the living room, followed by laughter. She follows the sound, curious.

Sigrid walks into the living room and laughs.

There’s a tree in the house.

It had been too much trouble for most to bring a tree for the winter solstice over the water when they lived in Laketown. Before the coffers had started to run low, The Master had always purchased a large evergreen tree from the Elves and had it decorated in the centre of town. This tree is nowhere near as large, but reaches the ceiling nonetheless. Tilda is grinning proudly at it – it is probably the first evergreen tree she has ever seen - while Bain shakes bits of leaf from his shaggy hair. It warms her chest to see Fíli leaning against the archway, arms folded over his chest, watching her siblings with an amused look on his face. He meets her gaze and grins, though a little bewilderedly. 

“What’s all this?” She asks, tearing her gaze away from him to look back her brother and sister.

Bain snorts. “It was meant to be a surprise. Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“It’s a gift from King Thranduil!” Tilda exclaims, beaming.

Sigrid has to quell her initially suspicious reaction. Nothing had come for free in Laketown, but they’re no longer in Laketown, she has to remind herself. Unconsciously, she twists the ring on her finger, gazing thoughtfully at the tree. The Master’s tree had been decorated in ornate baubles, tinsel, and little golden bells. They have nothing of that ilk.

“A tree like this needs decorations, don’t you think?” She muses, crossing her arms over her chest.

“That’s another part of the surprise.” Tilda says with a mischievous grin that promises nothing but trouble. There’s a large box sat by her sister’s feet that she hadn’t noticed before. “Which is why you need to leave. Right now. And don’t let Da come home either.”

“You’re not supposed to see the tree until it’s finished.” Bain explains, looking a little more apologetic.

“Fíli can keep you entertained.” Tilda giggles. “We shouldn’t be long.”

Sigrid purses her lips, tempted to argue – it’s freezing outside, after all - but out of the corner of her eye, she can see that Fíli has already put his coat on. She meets his gaze and he shrugs, as if to say _why not?_ She glances back at her siblings, taking in Tilda’s beaming grin. Her sister has never been able to celebrate the Yule before, not like this, so Sigrid decides to humour her, just a little.

“Fine,” Sigrid sighs, “but we’ll be back in an hour.”

With that, she turns and walks back to the front door, Fíli following quietly behind her. She pulls her coat back on and Fíli opens the door, holding it open for her. She walks out the door, smiling to herself at the sound of Tilda’s laughter. It’s strange – such an automatic thing – that she tucks her hand in the crook of his elbow. She doesn’t look across but she can feel him looking at her.

“So where are we going?” He asks as they wander out into the snow.

She stares ahead, smiling to herself. “It’s a surprise.”

Fíli doesn’t put up a fuss or argue the way she half-expects him to. He lets her tow him in the direction of the Great Hall without another word. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye and grins. The hall is busy, teeming with activity in preparation for the Yule celebration. No one in the hall seems surprised to see the two of them together and no one bats an eyelid when she guides Fíli past them and up the stairs. Her cheeks still warm a little, for reasons she isn’t ready to dwell on. Mercifully - it’s quieter upstairs, and the room she had in mind is empty.

“No much of Dale’s old library survived,” she explains as they walk into the room. The room is small, temporary, with only a single shelf containing dusty old books and scrolls. The large windows fill the room with light and there are armchairs sat in front of a small, lit hearth. The room has quickly become one of her favourite places in Dale. She slips her hand off of Fíli’s arm to lightly run the tips of her fingers across the weathered, old spines. The few books to survive dragon fire. They were lucky to have found any. “This is all that’s left.”

Fíli is quiet, his expression thoughtful, making it difficult to know what he’s thinking. She doesn’t really know why she brought him here – only that it had, for some reason, felt important that she did. Books aren’t really her people’s biggest priority, not when there are repairs to be made, crops to be sown, and buildings to refurbish, and so it took a lot of convincing to get even this small room, tucked away in the back of the hall, to be converted into a library. She suspects they’re only humouring her, but she doesn’t mind. Not if it means there’s a library, no matter how small.

“It’s incredible, I thought everything was lost in the fire.” Fíli eventually says. He seems to mean it, and that means… _everything_ to her. It must show on her face because he looks at her and the corners of his lip twitches. “Well, if you ever need more, I’m sure Ori will be happy to add to the collection. He’s got a whole stack of books on Elvish history hidden away that Thorin recommended he used for firewood.”

She can’t help but stare at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Really? Are – are you sure?”

“I mean, it’s just flowery Elvish rubbish, but you’re welcome to it. You’d actually be doing him a favour.”

“Thank you – that’s – that’s -” Sigrid clears her throat, willing the blush on her cheeks to die down. She never quite knows what to do with herself in situations like this, when he does something so kind and looks her at with such a warm, open look on his face. She turns away, mostly to hide her likely bright red cheeks, and grabs the book she had been looking at last week, taking it over to one of the armchairs. “This a – um – history of Dale. Has all the names of the past lords and ladies. I wonder if Balin might remember some of them…”

“Aye, he might.” Fíli says as he sits down on the armchair beside her.

“It – uh - says here that there was this one lord – Girion’s great great great grandfather, I think – was so paranoid and worried about his health that he locked himself in his room for days whenever someone so much as sneezed around him -” She’s nervous – she’s babbling – but Fíli doesn’t seem to mind. He nods, lips twitching with amusement, and rests his chin on his hand.

She sets the book down on her lap and sneaks a glance at him. She finds she can’t hold his gaze for long. “This morning… you said you were glad to see me. What – what did you mean by that?”

“Ah, that… I – well…” Fíli ducks his head and rubs the nape of his neck. “I wasn’t sure if the, uh, night before had been a dream.”

 _Have you dreamed about me before?_ She almost asks – as a _joke_ – but the question stops her short. It catches her off-guard. Suddenly she wants to know – _needs_ to know, only she’s too afraid to ask. She bites her lip and looks away. “I was so tired,” he continues, still looking a little flustered, “I thought I might have imagined it. It’s happened before. Except… it’s usually the other way around… Uncle reckons we’ve had whole conversations before when I’m half-asleep that I don’t remember.”

“Oh.” She mumbles, feeling oddly disappointed. “Makes sense. Bain’s like that sometimes too…”

Sigrid returns her attention to her book, her thoughts all tangled and confused. There are books on medicine at her bedside – on loan from Oin – and a collection of poems on the constellations from Tauriel, and yet she keeps coming back to this one dusty old tome. The pages are yellow with age, the cover faded and the spine cracked. On the inside of the front cover is a drawing of Dale, the way it once was. The way she hopes it can be again. Her ancestors weren’t perfect – the book in her hands is evidence of that – but they ruled peacefully for centuries. The people of Dale had lived peacefully amongst the Dwarves and never went to war with anyone, their city was rich and plentiful. She hums thoughtfully as her thoughts turn to Isolde and the predicament she had brought before them.

She glances at Fíli, wondering if she ought to tell him. It isn’t as though he hasn’t seen it before – he’d seen it with his own eyes, the way a few of the farmers had reacted when he offered to provide help with the fence restoration. Except - she doesn’t want to worry him, and a part of her doesn’t want him to think badly of her people. They’ve come so far, she doesn’t want the opinions of a few sullying that.

“Sigrid?” She glances up at the sound of her name. Fíli is watching her carefully, brows drawn together. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she quickly says, not quite able to meet his gaze. “I’m fine.”

Fíli’s brows lift and his eyes narrow a fraction, obviously seeing right through her. She drops her gaze to her hands and sighs. “I was just thinking. There’s… there’s this girl. Isolde. She came to my father this morning to talk about – well, that doesn’t matter, but she mentioned her husband and the way she described him… I’m just worried for her, that’s all.”

“You think he’s been abusing her?” He frowns.

“I believe so. She asked me not to interfere, but I – I can’t _not_ do anything, can I?” She tips her head back, sighing heavily. “I don’t know how to help her, that’s the problem. She hasn’t made an official complaint and the guards can’t arrest him without cause. I thought I might go over there, speak with her when her husband isn’t about. Except, she won’t see me as a friend when she’s been taught she has to bow and call me _my lady,_ but if I go over there putting on airs – that’s not – I’m not -”

“‘Putting on airs’?” Fíli leans forward in his seat, rubbing his jaw. There’s a hint of a bruise there, hidden in his beard. She hadn’t noticed it before. She wonders how he got it. “You need to stop seeing yourself as the poor bargeman’s daughter, powerless and living under someone else’s thumb. You’re not that person anymore. Sigrid, you’re a Princess of both Dale and Erebor. You must do away with the notion that you’re undeserving of the love and respect your people have for you.”

Her lip quivers and for a long moment she doesn’t know what to say.

“I don’t know how to be the person they all expect me to be, Fíli.” She murmurs, admitting the truth she’s kept to herself for so long.

“But you already -” Whatever Fíli is about to say is cut off by the door suddenly banging open.

“My lady!” Árni exclaims and the young boy’s bright grin falters when he looks between the two of them, like he had walked in on something he shouldn’t. She feels the sting of tears in her eyes and blinks hard against them. “I – I’m very sorry to interrupt, my lady, but Hilda asked me to find you.”

She straightens. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes! Well, yes and no.” Árni frowns. “I’m afraid it’s the decorating committee, my lady.”

“‘The decorating committee’?” Fíli echoes, looking like he’s fighting a smile.

“What now?” She sighs and Árni shrugs, shuffling his feet.

“Can’t say, my lady. I don’t rightly know. Hilda just said that they’re coming close to blows and would like your input. Think it’s something about tinsel.” With that, the young boy ducks out of the room as quickly as he had appeared. She glances at Fíli and frowns.

“I’m sorry,” she says and gets to her feet. “I – I ought to go see what that was all about. I shouldn’t be long.”

Fíli stands, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I can come with you, if you like.”

“Okay.” She smiles weakly. “But I ought to warn you – the decorating committee is a force to be reckoned with.”

Sigrid can’t help but glance at him as they walk out of the small library and back downstairs. His words rattle around her head. She knows that things have changed but she’s still the same person she’s always been. But then, she thinks of her father that morning – he’s the same man he has always been, only now in a position where he can actually help people. If she can find a way to be more like him, then perhaps she can help Isolde… She tucks her hand back into the crook of Fíli’s elbow and smiles when he places his hand over hers.

 

* * *

 

Later, after the decorating committee have argued for over an hour over whether or not to decorate the Yule tree with stars or bells, they’re finally allowed to leave. Fíli had sat in the corner of the room – keeping out of it, like any sane person would. He springs to his feet when the meeting finally ends, grabbing her by the hand and practically dragging her from the room. Her laughter echoes around the hall.

But they walk from one disaster into another.

She hears her father’s voice as they step outside. There are people gathered in the snowy courtyard outside of the Great Hall. Not unusual. People stop to talk to her father all the time. Bard looks up, his expression weary, but manages a small, weak smile at the sight of her. The look on his face is enough to tell her that something’s wrong. She keeps holding onto Fíli’s hand, not wanting to let go if she’s about to hear bad news.

“Forgive me, I would have waited until you had finished your business, but I thought you’d want to know right away.” She hears Percy say with a heavy sigh. Behind him, she can see one of the healers approaching. “Last night’s storm – I’m sad to say it’s as you feared, m’lord.”

Her father grows noticeably still. “How many?”

“Two. Old Halldir and his wife. I don’t know why they were still in that house, I s’pose they mustn’t have listened when you suggested they relocate to somewhere more secure. Damn fools.” Percy curses gravely, running his hand over his shaggy, grey beard. The healer pats Percy on the shoulder as he comes to stand beside him. “I had some of the lads load them into a wagon, until we know what to do with their bodies.”

The fountain in the centre of the courtyard must have frozen in the night; she can see a faint glint of pennies in the frozen water.

“The cold must’ve been too much for them.” The healer tells them, the lines on his face looking more severe than they had been the last time they spoke. “They were old and there’s still so many repairs to be done to the roof, in the end I suppose it was inevitable. But it begs the question, doesn’t it? What if these two are just the first to go? What if…”

The ground is too cold to bury them; their bodies will have to be burned. She had hoped never to see another funeral pyre again.

“We won’t let it come to that.” Bard answers, though his expression remains grave. “Should the need arise, we’ll find shelter in the mountain.”

“Oin believes that it’ll only get worse, that this winter will be much harsher than the last…” She finds herself saying, her gaze flickering to the healer’s grave, troubled expression. The great forges keep the mountain warm throughout the year and its massive iron gates shelter them from the harsh gales which ravage Dale. Beneath their mountain the Dwarves are safe and protected, while her people freeze to death in their beds.

Bard regards her for a moment, brow creasing in thought, and then nods. “I will speak with King Thorin. I will see it done.”

“Your people will always be welcome in Erebor, I promise you. If you believe your people are in danger, then they should be moved into the mountain as soon as possible. My uncle will not turn you away.” Fíli says and her father nods in thanks. Percy and some of the others murmur in agreement.

“Sigrid, perhaps you ought to -” Bard begins to say but she shakes her head.

“No, I’m coming with you.”

“Please, do as I say. This isn’t something I want you to see. Fíli, can you -” Her father shoots Fíli a pleading look and a moment later, he lets go of her hand and wraps his arm around her waist. Fíli guides her away and she exhales unsteadily, the sharp coil of panic in her chest refusing to unravel. She lets herself lean on him, just for a little bit, only until they reach her house and she has to put on a brave face for Bain and Tilda.

 

* * *

 

That night, Fíli stays.

The storm had picked up late into the afternoon, making the road back to the mountain untraversable. Naturally, her father invites him to stay and stay he does. It had seemed so normal for him to be there, amongst her family, and not for the first time, she wonders how it all got so confused. And for the second time in two days, Sigrid finds herself lying awake, listening to the chiming of the grandfather clock. She has no excuse; Tilda is curled up on her side, hasn’t kicked her or jabbed her with her elbows all night. The longer she lies awake, the more reasons she can think of why sleep evades her – she’s cold, the mattress feels lumpy, and she can’t quite get her pillow how she wants it. But that’s not the real reason and deep down, she knows it.

Huffing, she rolls onto her side. She has a busy day ahead of her, she can’t afford to be tired.

Not that she isn’t _already_ tired. On top of the news of the deaths of Halldir and his wife, listening to the ridiculous concerns of the decorating committee had been draining and then she had spent the afternoon helping clean up Bain and Tilda’s mess after their tree collapsed and spread pine needles all across the living room floor. The tree had, eventually, been righted and properly decorated. It had been worth it, to see the look on her father’s face when he came home and saw it.

She hadn’t known Halldir – she doesn’t even know his wife’s name – but their deaths have left her shaken. They were old, it was bound to happen eventually, but she’d thought it would be a long time before another one of her people died. And to think that they could have prevented it – that is what troubles her the most.

She shifts onto her back and glares at the cracks in ceiling. Tilda grumbles a little in her sleep, rolling onto her side. Her foot knocks into Sigrid’s, her toes like icicles. Sigrid sits up with a heavy sigh. The fire in the hearth is low, but still crackling. It usually takes a few hours for it to burn out completely, meaning she hasn’t been lying awake for as long as she thought.

She’s almost relieved when Tilda shifts in her sleep again and kicks Sigrid’s shin with her icy toes.

Not that she will ever admit that. With an exasperated huff her heart isn’t really into, she throws back the covers and gets up. Almost immediately, Tilda rolls into the space she had vacated, mumbling quietly in her sleep. Sigrid tucks the covers around her before she tiptoes out of the room with no hesitation this time. A footboard creaks underfoot as she closes the bedroom door behind her and she winces. The last thing she needs is to wake someone up and have to explain where she’s planning on going. In the morning she’ll blame it on being delirious and sleep deprived. For now, she just longs for the warm, dreamless night’s sleep she had had the night before.

She tiptoes down the hallway, avoiding the floorboards she knows that creak. Even with two pairs of socks on, her feet are cold. She rubs her hands together, blowing on them before she very quietly knocks on her bedroom door. There’s no answer so she knocks again, a little louder this time. No answer again. The house is so quiet she can hear Bain snoring and the ticking of the grandfather clock.

“Fíli?” She opens the door a crack. “Are you awake?”

There’s no answer. As she should have expected. _Bad idea, Sigrid,_ she thinks as she turns away, embarrassed. _Should’ve stayed in bed instead of acting like an idiot._ It’s the middle of the night, it’s unreasonable to expect him to have been lying awake like her. She reaches for the door handle, about to close the door and then –

A sound. From inside the bedroom. She ought to walk away but she doesn’t.

Sigrid steps into the room and quietly closes the door behind her. In the dim light, she can see the sheets tangled around Fíli’s legs. His hands are curled into fists at his sides. The closer she gets, the more she can hear how heavily he’s breathing. A faint whimper escapes his lips and his eyelashes flutter. She knows a nightmare well enough when she sees it.

“No… no…” He mumbles, writhing in his sleep. His brows are drawn together, his expression pained.

“Fíli?” She tries again as she carefully sits down on the edge of the bed. In the healing tents, a few of the patients had lashed out when they were woken from a nightmare. Don’t shake them awake, wake them up slowly, that’s the trick. She reaches out, hesitant, and pokes his ankle. His breath hitches but he doesn’t wake up. “Fíli, you need to wake up. I need you to -”

“Kee… no… I’ve – I’ve got this -”

Taking a risk, she wraps her fingers around his ankle and tugs. Her fingers are cold against his bare skin. He keeps mumbling in his sleep, something in Dwarvish she doesn’t understand. She shakes his leg and he jerks awake, gasping desperately and lurching upright in bed. For what feels like a long time, he sits there, breathing heavily, staring unfocusedly ahead of him. She loosens her grip on his ankle but doesn’t let go.

“It’s okay.” She murmurs and he frowns, looking at her like he’s not sure if she’s really there or not. “It’s just a dream.”

But Fíli shakes his head with a weary look in his eyes. “It’s not just a dream…”

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks, wary.

“Memories. That’s all it is.” He says but his voice catches, giving him away. “Is everything okay? Why are you…?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She shifts closer, her hand settling on his knee. “You – you know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

“I know.” Fíli bows his head and then, very slowly, places his hand over hers. His hand is shaking, his palm clammy. He clings onto her hand a little too tightly, crushing her fingers without meaning to. “I thought – I thought maybe they’d gone away. The dreams. It’s been so long since… Maybe it was hearing about those poor people – ah, I’m sorry, you don’t have to listen to this - you must be tired -”

“Fíli,” she says slowly, cutting in. “You once told me I didn’t have to pretend around you. I’d like to think the same went for you…”

He stares at her for a long moment before he sighs, relenting. “It’s always the same dream. The moment when I saw Thorin, facing down the Pale Orc alone on the ice. I tried to get to him but there was an archer and then goblins came rushing out of the tower… I’d lost Kíli when we were scouting the tunnels, I thought – I thought I was going to die and then he appeared. He tried to save me and they cut him down too…”

She remembers his wounds, can picture them so clearly in her head. He had been hit with three arrows - one in his back, his shoulder, and hand. And then there had been the infection. So many times, she had heard the healers question how he was still alive.

“I knew what I was getting into when we left the mountain. There were so many of them and so few of us… I hadn’t really expected to make it out alive. At least – I’d thought – it would be a good way to go. Worthy of a song. But I – I had always thought Kíli would make it. I remember lying on the ice thinking, if anyone deserved to live, it was him…” He shudders, and his broad shoulders hunch, somehow making him look small. “And an Orc ran him through with its sword.”

“Fíli…” She murmurs, not knowing what else to say.

“And my uncle -” he sighs heavily, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I should have been there. It should have been me. I should have –”

Fíli laughs bitterly, humourlessly, and his eyes shine with tears. Sigrid feels her breath catch in her throat, seeing him like this – it breaks her heart just a little. She doesn’t know how to do this – how to help him – but she has to try, for his sake. She moves up the bed until she’s close enough to wrap her free arm around his shoulders. His head bows, falling onto her shoulder, a shaky breath escaping his lips.

“Sometimes – sometimes I don’t know what’s real. Sometimes I think I’m going to open my eyes and be back on that ice, waiting to die.”

“You’re alright. I promise, you’re alright…” She breathes, gently rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. She somehow manages to sound calm, even though something sharp stabs at her heart at seeing him in pain. The hand not holding hers is trembling, clenched around her loose night shirt. “The battle is over. You survived. You all did. And I’ll always be here, if you ever need someone to tell you what’s real.”

Fíli laughs quietly, breathlessly, and lifts his head off of her shoulder. His eyes are still bright with tears but he’s smiling a small, bittersweet smile.

“I may hold you to that.” He says.

 

* * *

 

 

Fíli is quiet for so long, with his head pressed into the crook of her neck, that she doesn’t notice he’s asleep until he starts to snore. She laughs quietly to herself as she gingerly lays him back against the pillows. His head lolls to one side, one side of his ridiculous braided moustache draped across his nose. He’s still holding onto her hand determinedly, refusing – even in his sleep – to let go, making it difficult for her to right the tangled sheets.

She knows she ought to leave. Things will only get more confused if she stays. The sensible thing to do is go back to the bed she shares with Tilda and get as much sleep as she can in the few hours left until morning.

But instead, Sigrid stays.

She slips under the thick blanket and intends to fall asleep there, lying as close to the edge of the bed as she can. The bed is warm and soft and she closes her eyes, expecting to fall asleep like that, but then Fíli mumbles something in his sleep beside her, his grip on her hand tightening. She can’t help but roll onto her side to face him. The pain and the worry have gone from his features, leaving him looking peaceful at last. It makes her smile, seeing him with his face buried in the pillow, snoring softly.

She can’t help but reach out and carefully brush a stray strand of hair off of his face. He hums in his sleep, a small, contented sound. Her fingers trail lightly down his cheek, running through the short hair of his beard. She likes the feel of it under her fingers; it isn’t the long, grizzly beards most Dwarves favour, but short still, a mark of his youth. Fíli makes that sound again, leaning into her touch.

Something inside her stirs, something strange and unfamiliar, as she wonders how differently her life might have turned out had Fíli died that day, on the ice with his brother. She’d be married, she suspects – not for love, but out of duty. Married to someone with wealth and influence, someone with the means to benefit her people. A stranger, no doubt, from far away, wanting her just for what her title can give him. She might have children – another man might not be so gallant as Fíli and insist on being married in more ways than just on paper. She can’t imagine herself as a mother, it’s a life she’d never really imagined for herself.

She can’t imagine never knowing Fíli, never becoming his friend, never –

The thought that Fíli could have died during the battle and she might never have spared him a single thought tears at her. She doesn’t know why – she doesn’t understand it – and that somehow makes it all the more worse.

He would have just been that Dwarf who climbed out of her toilet, who saved her and her sister, who died long before his time. Her hand trembles as she draws it away from his face. Fíli grumbles unhappily in his sleep, shifting closer to her, never once letting go of her hand. Her vision swims and she closes her eyes, fighting the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Her breath catches in her throat, a sob escaping her lips. She presses her lips together to muffle the sound, not wanting to wake him, and turns her face into her pillow.

“Sigrid?” Fíli mumbles, his voice rough with sleep. His eyes flutter open and he stares blearily at her.

“Go back to sleep.” She whispers.

His eyes fall closed, like he can’t help it, but he tugs on her hand.

“Come here.” He murmurs as he rolls onto his back. She hesitates and he tugs at her hand, making a discontented sound. _For his sake,_ she tells herself as she inches closer. He lets go of her hand to wrap his arm around her, pulling her into his side. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, her arm curled over his torso, just like the way she woke that morning. Fíli sighs, a happy sound that soothes the ache inside her chest. Unconsciously, she slides her hand up his chest to settle over his heart. She can feel the steady heartbeat under her palm and it’s strangely soothing.

“Night, love.” She murmurs, too tired to realise what that one, dangerous little word entails.

She feels Fíli smile against the top of her head before she slips into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not 100% happy with this chapter but it's been so long that i really wanted to get it posted. i may come back and tweek a few things i'm completely happy with at a later stage, but i'll let you guys know if i do. at this point, i think there's about 4-5 more chapters left to go, but i do plan on continuing this and making it a series. 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i'm so sorry for the long wait <3 <3


	17. Chapter 17

Sigrid wakes early the next morning, warm and comfortable, and reluctant to move.

There are birds outside her window, singing loudly. She opens her eyes a crack, scowling at the darkness still shrouding the room. She groans and snuggles closer to the warmth beside her, deciding it’s too far early to be awake. There’s a heavy, solid weight curled around her shoulders that ought to be uncomfortable, but it’s not. It makes her feel safe instead of caged. Her fingers curl around the soft material under her palm and something – _someone –_ hums. The sound makes her smile. A moment later, something tickles the tip of her nose. Her nose wrinkles but she makes no move to brush it away. Something tickles her nose again and she grumbles unhappily.

The birds keep on singing and her nose continues to be tickled, refusing to let her go back to sleep.

She lifts her head, eyes only open a crack, and her hair falls across her face. Her face scrunches up, wondering how her hair escaped the braid she had put it in the night before. As she lifts her hand to push her hair away from her face, another beats her to it. Calloused fingers brush across her forehead, gently carting through her hair. The fingers run through her hair, detangling the knots. And still half-asleep, she doesn’t question it too much. She leans into the touch, sighing contentedly.

“Go back to sleep.” A deep voice rumbles and she hums, agreeing. It’s much too early to be awake after all, so she closes her eyes again and rests her cheek back down on the solid, comfortable warmth beside her. She falls back to sleep, smiling faintly, with gentle fingers carting through her long hair.

The next time Sigrid wakes up, she’s alone.

The bed is cold, the space beside her empty. She feels a small pang of disappointment. She might have imagined that the night before was a dream if it weren’t for the fact that she’s in her own room instead of Tilda’s. Shaking off the feeling, she sits up and touches the tangled mess that is her hair. A bath, she decides. _Definitely need a bath._ It takes time – they don’t have the luxury of the complicated, ingenious Dwarven plumbing system, she has to warm water over the open coal fireplace in the bathroom and cart it back and forth.

Eventually, she sheds her nightclothes and sinks into the warm water with a contented sigh. She can see snow falling through the window, light flurries as opposed to the previous night’s storm. She reaches for her bar of lavender scented soap and leans back against the rim of the bath. The peace and quiet gives her time to think. She takes her time washing her hair, humming under her breath as she does so.

She lifts her left hand out of the water, inspecting the gold band on her finger as her thoughts shift to the whispered conversation she and Fíli shared in the early hours of the morning. Sigrid doesn’t share her sister’s romantic sensibilities; she had married Fíli for her father and her people. They both went into it knowing that. After the battle, her people had been so afraid – afraid that the Dwarves would turn their backs on them, that King Thorin would refuse what he had promised them again. They had needed something more solid than one Dwarf King’s word. They have that – they’re not afraid anymore, but the Dwarves are still seen as outsiders instead of allies. They forget that Fíli is a Prince of Dale as well.

And just like that, she knows what she needs to do.

She takes her time, going over in her head what needs to be done. She stays in the bath until the water grows cold and returns to her room wrapped up in a towel and a dressing gown. Her room is still empty. No sign of Fíli. She doesn’t even bother pretending that she isn’t disappointed. Her gaze lingers a little too long on the dent in the pillow where his head had been, her cheeks growing warm. For the second time, they’d shared her bed. Something that shouldn’t be ground-breaking in a marriage, but it is, for them. Forcing herself to turn away, she wraps her hair up in a towel and dresses for the day.

She’s fastening her dress when Tilda bursts into her room, still in her nightclothes and grinning from ear to ear.

“Morning!” She calls in a sing-song voice, flopping down on Sigrid’s bed. “A letter came for you.”

Sigrid raises an eyebrow, not looking up from the fastenings of her dress. “Oh?”

“I’m not sure who it’s from, Da told me not to open it.” Tilda says as she shimmies down the bed. She slips off of the bed and skips over to the vanity, grabbing a brush and some ribbon.  She gestures for Sigrid to sit and she obliges her with a small, amused smile. Tilda sits down next to her on the bed and takes a section of Sigrid’s long, damp hair and starts gently running the brush through it. “The bird that delivered it was very sweet, didn’t look like a raven though. More like a pigeon.”

“Mustn’t be from around these parts then. How mysterious.” Sigrid smiles.

“Maybe it’s from a secret admirer – ooh, or a handsome knight from Gondor vying for your hand in marriage.”

Sigrid snorts. “I think Fíli might have a thing or two to say about that.”

“You could always have two husbands.” Tilda giggles. “I read about a man from Rhûn who had a dozen wives.”

“Is that so?” She laughs. _I’m quite happy with the one I’ve already got,_ she almost says. The thought – and just how much she means it - surprises her. She swallows hard, glad that Tilda can’t see her face. “A dozen wives, eh? That sounds like a lot of work. Can you imagine how many Yule presents you’d have to buy?”

Later, once Tilda has brushed and braided her hair, Sigrid turns to her. “Tilda, do you know Evette Alaldsen?”

Tilda stills. “Why do you want to know?”

“Apparently she’s the ringleader of some guild, trying to keep the merchants from selling to outsiders.”

“Oh,” Tilda murmurs, fidgeting. “You know about that?”

“Wait.” Sigrid frowns. “ _You_ know about it? Why did you never say anything?”

“I would’ve!” Tilda protests, raising her head to meet Sigrid’s gaze. “I was going to tell you, I was, but – but Fíli was here and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. The things they’ve been saying about Dwarves – it’s… it’s not very nice. And I was going to say something to them but Miss Hilda told me not to.”

“Well, I’m going to say something. What does this Evette woman look like?”

“She’s only a bit older than Da, but she has a mean face with lots of lines on her forehead. _Really_ short blonde hair. Has a mole on her cheek, near her lip. She’s hard to miss.” Tilda says, her expression turning contemplative. “You should bring Bain with you. Y’know, for muscle.”

“‘Muscle’?” Sigrid snorts. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

Tilda ignores her, slipping off of the bed and scampering out of the room before Sigrid can stop her. Not that she could have stopped her anyway. Sigrid sighs and gets to her feet, making the bed before she leaves the room. She’s downstairs, eating a piece of toast and pulling on her coat, when Tilda eventually reappears, still in her nightclothes, and with Bain wandering down the stairs shortly after.

“Bit early to be roughin’ someone up, isn’t it?” Bain deadpans.

Tilda snorts. “Is that more of an evening activity?”

“Depends.” Bain shrugs. “I mean, if it’s just the one person then it’s -”

“We are not roughing anyone up!” Sigrid exclaims, something she never thought she’d have to say. She grabs her scarf from the coat rack and winds it loosely around her neck. “For goodness’ sake, I’m just want to talk to her!”

Bain pulls a face. “Well, that’s no fun.”

Sigrid rolls her eyes and throws open the front door, stepping out into the cold. She doesn’t wait to see if they’ll follow her, she knows she doesn’t have to. She barely makes it five steps before she hears the front door close and Bain jogs up beside her. Tilda – fortunately – has the good sense not to join them while still wearing her nightclothes. It had snowed heavily in the night, the snow nearly reaches her knees. They’ll have to start shovelling the snow off of the streets if it gets any worse. She hopes Fíli managed to get back to the mountain without too much trouble.

The marketplace is quiet, it’s close enough to noon that most have already closed their stalls for lunch. Luckily for her, Evette is still there, stood behind a large wooden stand, selling an array of pots, looking exactly the way Tilda had described. She’s a small woman, slight and far shorter than Sigrid, with very short, fair hair and a pinched expression on her face that looks permanent. Sigrid notices Isolde stood with a gruff looking man who she assumes must be her husband. Sigrid smiles warmly at her as she passes, relishing in the double take Isolde’s husband does.

Evette straightens when Sigrid and Bain approach her stand, going from looking utterly bored to startled.

“Prince Bain! Princess Sigrid! What an honour!” Evette exclaims, hurrying around to the front of her stall. She’s a tiny woman; she barely reaches Sigrid’s shoulders. She’s probably not that much taller than most Dwarves, a comparison Sigrid doubts the woman would appreciate. “Is there anything I help you with? Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

Sigrid shares a glance with Bain, who gives the woman a disbelieving once over.

“Actually, there is something you can help me with.” Sigrid tells her, donning a polite smile. _Courtesy is a lady's armour,_ Dara had told her once. She hadn’t paid much attention to the advice at the time, replying that most Dwarf ladies she knew wore plenty of armour, made from metal, not a bunch of pretty words. Dara had been less than amused. “My father asked me to speak with you, regarding the Merchant’s Guild.”

“The – the Guild?” Evette stammers. “What about it?”

“What is the business of this guild?” Bain asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“A few of us thought it would be a good idea to start a guild, what with so many new merchants arriving in Dale. We make sure the goods aren’t counterfeit and are worthy to be sold in our great marketplace. It was actually my idea that we offer lower prices to our people – to those that are still struggling.” The woman sounds so genuine, Sigrid almost believes her.

“And is it not also true that your Guild charges extra to those who don’t support it?” Sigrid asks and Evette’s smile falters.

“I – yes, my lady, that is true.”

Sigrid hums thoughtfully. “So when you say you’re offering lower prices to those who are struggling, what you really mean is that you’ll only do so to those willing to pay for such a privilege? So you’re not truly helping our people at all. You’re overcharging those who will not – or cannot afford to – fund your Guild.”

“It’s in our people’s best interest to support the Guild.” Evette says, lifting her chin as though she is proud of it.

“And refusing to sell to outsiders and Dwarves? Is that also in our people’s best interest?” Bain demands, striding towards the woman. Evette stumbles back a step, knocking into her stall. Sigrid reaches out, lightly resting her hand on Bain’s arm. Her brother stops at once, glancing across at her questioningly. She shakes her head minutely and he sighs under his breath, taking a step back.

“We must stick with our own, my lady!” Evette asserts, the harsh lines on her face deepening when she frowns. “These _outsiders_ haven’t struggled as we have. And the Dwarves – they’re the reason we’ve struggled. They’re not welcome here. Not in our city. They ought to stay in that mountain where they belong.”

“And what _right_ do you have to decide who is welcome in this city?” Sigrid asks, forcing her tone to remain calm.

“As a loyal citizen of Dale, I believe -”

“No,” Sigrid cuts in. “You have no right. These outsiders, as you call them, have been welcomed into this city by my father. And the Dwarves? The Dwarves are our _allies_.” She’s tempted to mention that it is only with a _Hobbit’s share_ of _Dwarven gold_ that they have been able to rebuild the city and no longer live amongst rubble. And it won’t be long now until her people have to move into the mountain, she wonders what Evette and her Guild will have to say to that.

“Allies? Allies made under duress! Those despicable creatures - bringing that dragon upon us! Forcing _our_ princess to marry that – that -”

“Careful,” Bain warns. “Best not to forget that my sister’s husband is also – technically - a Prince of Dale.”

“A Prince of -” Evette splutters, her face growing red. “I’ll never accept -”

“Your Guild is finished, Evette, and your right in sell in the city of Dale is revoked until further notice. If you have a problem with this, you may take it up with my father.” Sigrid turns away before the woman can respond. She walks away with Bain following close behind her and notices Isolde smile from where she’s stood beside her small stand. Beside her, her gruff-looking husband is almost as pale as the snow around them. It’s only once they’re out of view of the marketplace that Sigrid stumbles and collapses against a wall, fighting to catch her breath. Whatever courage she’d gathered to confront Evette has gone, and now the shock seeps in.

“They have to listen to me, don’t they?” Sigrid stares, wide-eyed ahead of her, truly realising for the first time just how much has changed. Fíli was right. She needs to accept that she’s no longer the person she used to be, poor and powerless and subject to the Master’s will. “We can actually help people. Do some good.”

“Yeah, I think we can.” Bain slumps against the wall beside her and grins. “Try not to get a big head now.”

Sigrid laughs and elbows him in the side. “I’ll do my best.”

 

* * *

 

For all their petty squabbling, at the end of the day the decorating committee delivered on their promise. The Great Hall looks nothing like the dusty, derelict building they’d once sheltered in. On the raised dais where her father holds the King’s Court is a band, playing shiny brass instruments similar to the kind the Master once favoured, and beside them is an entire table of wine and mead barrels. There are lanterns hanging from the ceiling, filling the room with a soft, warm light and the wooden pillars throughout the hall are wrapped in silver and gold tinsel with little holly leaves attached to them.

Sigrid can’t help but sigh when she sees just how much mistletoe has been hung up. Hilda’s idea, no doubt. Just asking for trouble. She barely takes two steps into the hall before she finds herself under the plant. Percy and his wife both laugh and kiss her on the cheek before heading off in the direction of the food. She quickly hurries away in search for a drink and a place to stand where the pesky plant isn’t hanging.

She’s leaning against the far wall of the hall, nursing a glass of wine, when the large double doors are flung open in a fairly dramatic fashion. A few people around her turn, looking to see who the late comers are. She spots Kíli and Tauriel at once, walking into the hall arm in arm, as well as Ori and two other Dwarves she doesn’t recognise - she even spots Rúna amongst them - but her gaze is drawn to Fíli. She can’t look away. He looks handsome in a deep red tunic and a black, grey fur lined coat she’s never seen before, so similar to the colours of Dale.

She loses the thread of the conversation she was having with one of her father’s council members – something about paint, or paintings – and stares. The two glasses of wine she’s had helps, makes her less inclined to feel awkward and embarrassed. She smiles behind her glass, watching his eyes flicker around the hall for a long moment until, at last, they settle on her. Whether it is the drink or something entirely different, his gaze warms her from head to toe.  

It’s – of course – at this moment that the song changes and someone steps in front of her, holding out his hand, asking her to dance. She has to tear her gaze away from Fíli to the person stood in front of her. Dancing is a tradition, to refuse wouldn’t be in the spirit of the celebration, so she downs her glass of wine in one go and sets it down beside her.

Percy’s nephew – young, unfailingly excitable, and from the looks of him, more than a little drunk – grins widely when she accepts his hand and drags her to the centre of the hall. He spins her around, making her stumble a little over her skirts, and they both laugh. The dance is fast paced; unlike Dwarven dancing, the steps more improvised than rehearsed. Percy’s nephew spins her around again and again and again, until the room around her is spinning too.

She’s dizzy and out of breath by the time the dance is over. She nearly groans when she’s almost immediately asked to dance by someone else. The next song – mercifully – is slower, and her new partner is less inclined to spin her every five seconds. She spots Fíli over her dance partner’s shoulder, stood with Ori. As if sensing her gaze, his eyes flicker up to meet hers. Just for a moment, before he looks away, his jaw clenching. Beside him, Ori looks very grave. She wonders what the two of them are talking about, for the both of them to look so uncharacteristically serious.

The song ends, and she calls over the noise about getting another drink. Her dance partner grins, says something she can’t make out over the noise, and then points above them. She’s surprised – even if she really shouldn’t be – to see mistletoe hanging over their heads. She rolls her eyes – it can’t be helped – and stretches up on her tiptoes to quickly kiss the man’s cheek.

Sigrid hurries away before anyone else can ask her to dance, weaving her way through the crowded hall to the long drinks table - where Fíli and Ori just happen to be stood. She grabs a glass of wine as she passes the table, sipping it as she approaches the two Dwarves. Strangely – it’s Ori who looks most pleased to see her, the librarian’s face lights up with a smile when he spots her, while Fíli’s gaze immediately drops to his mug of ale.

“Happy Yuletide!” She says, forcing a bright smile onto her face.

Ori beams at her. “Oh, yes, happy Yuletide to you too! You know - Fíli and I were just discussing how lovely you look.”

“Oh?” Her gaze shifts to Fíli, her cheeks growing warm. Something strange flutters in the pit of her stomach. Fíli’s gaze remains fixed on his ale, although he gives a grunt of assent. The look Ori shoots him is bemused. “Well, um, thank you. You both look very handsome. Are you enjoying the party so far?”

“Very much so! Everyone has been most welcoming.” Ori says and she hums, noting that Hilda had taken her seriously when she asked her to rescind all invitations to those in that damned merchant’s guild. “I was wondering though, what are those green plants hanging up everywhere?”

Sigrid sighs wearily. “It’s mistletoe.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of it before. Does it have some significance to the Yule?”

“Yes, there’s a…uh, tradition, of sorts.” She exclaims, feeling somewhat awkward when Fíli’s gaze finally lifts to meet hers. She takes a long sip of her wine before she continues. “If you stand under mistletoe with someone else, you’re supposed to kiss them. Causes nothing much trouble…”

Ori’s eyes light up with interest. “And this can happen with anyone?”

“Just as long as there’s mistletoe above you, it doesn’t matter who it is. I mean, you don’t _have to_ kiss them but it’s a tradition. We don’t have many, so what traditions we do have we take quite seriously.” _Unfortunately,_ she nearly adds. She’d almost had to kiss Alfrid because of mistletoe once; she’d only managed to avoid it because Bain had ‘accidentally’ tripped and knocked the man over. Sigrid grimaces at the memory, sipping her wine.

Fíli smiles for the first time since she’d approached them. “It’s a shame Dwalin isn’t here, isn’t it, Ori?”

Ori blushes beet red. “I – I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sigrid’s brows lift in surprise. Now that’s a match she never would have considered. On the one hand, Ori has always been unfailingly polite and wears knitted cardigans and always has his head buried in a book, while Dwalin is – well, _Dwalin._ But they’re not the strangest couple she’d ever heard of – a Hobbit from the Shire and a Dwarf King definitely take the cake on that one.

“I didn’t know you two were involved.” She says and Ori’s blush somehow deepens.

“We’re not! That’s – no - Fíli’s just trying to cause trouble. Dwalin would never – he wouldn’t think of _me –_ not that I think of him! Goodness no.” Ori hides his bright red cheeks behind his knitted gloves and shakes his head. “I – oh, can’t we talk about something else?”

When Fíli smirks, with an all too familiar, mischievous glint in his eyes, she knows he’s not going to let it go. She shoots him a look, shaking her head a fraction, and his grin falters.

“How’s the library? It’s been too long since I last visited.” She says.

“The restoration is going well.” Ori tells her, looking relieved at the change of subject. “For the last few months I’ve been working on translating some old Elvish texts. They’re truly fascinating. How they ended up in Erebor, I have no idea.”

A hand falls on her shoulder, heavy, startling her. 

“Care to dance, m’lady?” One of the fishermen – she can’t remember his name – slurs into her ear, reeking of alcohol. The novelty of free drinks isn’t lost on her people. She suspects most will be nursing sore heads in the morning. She grimaces and the man laughs. “C’mon, it’s tradition!”

She smiles thinly and sets her wine glass down. “Of course, I’d love to.”

“I don’t think I like this tradition,” she hears Fíli mutter as she’s dragged off to dance.

The drunk fisherman isn’t a bad dancer, all things considered. Her toes are only stepped on twice, but the belching she could do without. Over his shoulder, she spots a girl stood by the drinks table – one of the farmer’s daughters – eying Fíli up. The sight makes her frown. Once the song is over and the fisherman moves off in search of another partner, she wanders back over to the drinks table. Ori is gone, leaving Fíli stood alone, leaning against the table. The girl is still there, not being subtle at all - though she quickly looks away when she notices Sigrid watching at her.

“Where’d Ori go?” She asks as she picks her glass back up and leans against the table beside him.

Fíli shrugs. “I think he said something about getting food.”

“You think?” She asks and he just hums in response. She sneaks a glance at him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. The air between them feels different, strained. Like the way it used to be, when she never used to know what to say or do around him. She wonders what happened in the time between the night before and now, if she’d somehow missed something. “Do you – do you want to dance?”

Fíli glances at her, looking surprised. “I – uh – don’t know the steps.”

“There aren’t any. Not really.”

“Still, I – I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.” He says before he drops his gaze again, staring at his drink like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. _Of course,_ she thinks with a small, disappointed sigh. _One step forwards, three steps back._ That’s how it always seems to be with them.

“Is everything alright? You seem… distracted.”

He glances at her again, a fleeting thing, and sighs. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Do you want to talk about it? We don’t have to stay here – we could -”

“No, you should be here, enjoying the party.” He says and shoots her a small smile, but there’s something strained about it – something sad. “It’s nothing of consequence, I’ll be fine.” He’s not a very convincing liar. She reaches out – it can’t be helped – and lays her hand over his where it’s braced on the edge of the table. He seems to relax a little, but there’s still tension in his shoulders. She thinks of the warmth and the safety she’d felt sleeping next to him; she wants, with an intensity that startles her, to be that for him.

“If there’s something wrong, I don’t want you to -”

“Sigrid.” Fíli turns his hand over to slot their fingers together, giving her hand a squeeze. “Enough. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“But worrying is what I do best.” She says and he laughs softly under his breath.

“I know, but you don’t have to, not about me.” He gives her hand one final squeeze before he lets go.

“Lady Sigrid! Care to dance?” Someone calls from behind her. She nearly groans.

“Go,” Fíli smiles weakly. “I’ll be right here.”

His smile is still strained. She thinks back to their conversation the night before, and the nightmare she’d woken him from. She wonders if that’s what’s bothering him. It doesn’t seem fair – she knows he’d be there if she ever needed him – _has_ been there – and yet she can’t say the same for him. As she’s dragged off to dance by one of the farmers, Kíli appears beside his brother and slings his arm around his shoulders. Whatever he says manages to drag a smile out of Fíli and it settles her nerves a little.

The farmer is a poor dancer, but more polite than the fisherman. He – at least – apologies when he accidentally steps on her toes. She’s relieved when the dance is over, wants nothing more than to hide under one of the tables like she did when she was a child. Except she turns around to find Gared stood behind her. He looks different, all dressed up in his guardsman’s garb. The next song is slower – far slower than all the others. She wants to go back to the drinks table, is tired of dancing, but Gared doesn’t even ask, just reaches out and grabs her hand. He places both her hands around his neck and sets his on her waist. It’s not the first time they’ve danced together but it feels different somehow.

The last Yule party she’d attended, she’d hid under a table with Gared and Bain and some of the other children all night. They’d stolen little cakes and sweet rolls and laughed at the Master making a fool of himself. Tilda hadn’t even been born yet – her mother had still been alive – so long ago now, but the memory is still fresh in her brain.

“Y’know we’re standing under mistletoe, right?”

“Of course we are,” she mutters under her breath. “Can’t escape the bloody stuff.”

“I heard it’s a year’s bad luck if you ignore it.” Gared says, slurring a little, and with a small sigh, Sigrid turns her head and taps her cheek.

Gared snorts. “A kiss on the cheek? That’s not in the spirit of the season, Sig’.”

“‘The spirit of the season’?” She laughs to herself. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why not? You never used to mind kissing me before.” He’s only teasing, she knows that, except - it’s been years, and they’re just friends now, but there’s still history between them. They’re too close – she tries to move back but Gared’s hands tighten on her waist, keeping her in place. It brings back memories. Memories she really doesn’t want to think about in that moment. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know that Fíli is watching them. She can feel his gaze on her.

“I’m not kissing you because of some stupid bloody plant.” She mutters under her breath.

Gared leans in close – far too close – and grins. “We could go somewhere else, where there’s no mistletoe. Would you kiss me then?”

He’s been drinking – she can smell it on his breath – he wouldn’t be saying such things otherwise. He’d always been a lightweight, always made a fool of himself after just one drink. His brothers had used to tease him about it. She unwinds her arms from around his neck and draws away. His hands remain on her waist, refusing to budge.

“No,” she says as gently as she can. “Absolutely not.”

He pouts – an absolutely ridiculous expression on a grown man – and huffs. “Why not?”

“You know why.” She scowls.

“It’s not like you’re really married anyway.” He snorts. “Why should the Dwarf care?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sigrid doesn’t realise they’ve stopped moving until the couple next to them looks at them strangely. Her cheeks warm and she bats his hands away from her waist. She grabs him by the collar and he makes a noise of protest before she drags him away from the dancefloor. He stumbles after her and slumps against the nearest wall. Sigrid’s eyes flash to the ceiling and she sighs in relief. No mistletoe in sight.

“I’m sorry, Sig’. I didn’t mean it. I was only teasin’.” Gared mumbles, sliding down the wall. He’s on the floor before she has a chance to stop him, looking up at her with a confused expression. He looks so young and bewildered that her anger melts away. “Huh. How’d I get down here?”

She crouches down in front of him and brushes his hair away from his eyes. “Oh Gared, what am I going to do with you?”

“Randal would’ve liked tonight. Drinkin’ contest especially.” Gared says and bows his head. Sigrid sighs, realising she hadn’t seen either one of Gared’s parents all night. She’d been so caught up in the celebration, she hadn’t thought about how this time of year might be for others. Their second Yuletide without Arvid, Randal, and Balder – she can’t even imagine what it’s like for them.

“Bet he would’ve drank this lot under the table.” She murmurs and he laughs quietly, closing his eyes at her touch. In the warm candlelight, she can barely see the scars around his eye. She traces the jagged lines, sighing softly. “Stay here.” She tells him before she stands up. “I’ll be right back.”

She makes her way through the crowd, sidestepping a stumbling woman carrying an overflowing mug of ale and a couple not so much dancing, but leaning on each other, swaying side to side. All the wine she’d had earlier has left her head a little fuzzy. She rubs her temples, stifling a yawn as she carefully weaves her way back to the drinks table where Fíli is still stood, as promised. Kíli and Tauriel are next to him, staring at each other with such open affection that she quickly looks away. 

 _“Meldenya,”_ Tauriel smiles when she sees her. “There you are at last.”

“Maybe now Fíli can stop sulking.” Kíli mutters under his breath and Tauriel elbows him in the side.

“Actually,” Sigrid says and turns to Fíli. “Fíli, would you mind helping me with something?”

Fíli straightens. “Of course.”

“Is there something wrong?” Tauriel asks, eyes widening in concern.

She gives a quick shake of her head. “Just someone who needs a bit of help getting home.”

“We’ll talk later then, _meldenya_.” Tauriel smiles warmly and ducks her head to kiss Sigrid’s cheek.

Fíli gestures for her to lead the way and she nods, waving goodbye to Kíli and Tauriel before she turns on her heel. Fíli stays close; she can feel the warmth of his presence at her back as she navigates her way through all the people.

Gared is still where she left him, slumped against the wall, looking half-asleep.

“Do you think you could…” She gestures vaguely at him, grimacing when she realises just how far Gared’s house is from the hall. “He’s had too much to drink.” Fíli just nods, understanding, and walks up to where Gared is sitting. He bends, grabs one of Gared’s arms and slings it around his shoulders, hauling him to his feet. Their difference in height makes it somewhat difficult so Sigrid quickly ducks under Gared’s other arm, wincing when his head rolls to the side and knocks into hers.

“Think I’m gonna to be sick.” Gared announces and it almost makes her laugh, how quickly people clear out of their path.

Together they practically have to carry him out of the hall. Gared doesn’t make it any easier on them, tripping and stumbling over his own feet. She doesn’t have her coat, she’d passed it off to someone when she’d arrived. She shudders as they step through the double doors, hit at once with an icy gust of wind. He isn’t sick, but once outside, Gared’s legs seem to give up. Fíli sighs heavily, grabbing Gared with his free arm and without warning, he throws him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He doesn’t so much as grunt under his weight.

“Where to?” Fíli asks and she tears her gaze away from his arms, her cheeks growing warm.

“Gunnar and Gerda’s. Do you remember the way?”

“Don’t want to go back _there.”_ Gared mumbles, his voice muffled against Fíli’s back. “Damn depressing.”

Her twist lips in thought. “I suppose he can stay at mine. I can make up one of the guest bedrooms for him.”

“Aw, Sig’.” Gared grumbles. “Can’t I sleep in your bed?”

“ _No_.” Fíli and Sigrid both answer at the same time.

She doesn’t know what it means that she never once considered making up one of their many guest bedrooms for Fíli. There are four empty rooms in their house and yet, every time she told him to sleep in hers. She sneaks a glance at him as they walk across the courtyard and finds him already looking at her. She can’t hold his gaze for very long; she quickly looks away and fixes her attention on the snow-covered ground.

Even through the thick snow, it isn’t a long walk, but Gared is asleep, passed out and snoring against Fíli’s back once they reach her house. No one else is home yet and the house is silent, save for the Gared’s snores and the stairs creaking under Fíli’s heavy boots. She grabs some spare blankets and sheets from the linen cupboard and chooses the bedroom closest to the bathroom in case Gared wakes up, feeling sick again. Fíli waits, not seeming to notice the weight of the grown man slumped over his shoulder, while she quickly makes the bed. It’s oddly distracting.

Once the bed is made and Fíli sets Gared down on the bed, she tucks him in with a small, weary sigh. He looks so much younger asleep, so much more like the young boy she remembers. If not for the scars –

“If that’s all, I should get back.” Fíli says quietly from behind her, tearing her attention away from Gared.

“Wait,” she says at once. She frowns, not knowing what to say, only that she doesn’t want him to leave. Not yet. “I – I’ll walk you out.”

“Alright.” Is all Fíli says.

She closes the door quietly behind her when she leaves the room. She picks at a loose thread on her skirts, nervous all of a sudden. Fíli walks ahead of her; she stares at his back as they walk down the stairs. His hair is tied back with strips of leather, such a contrast to the gold and silver beads in his hair.

“Are you going back to the party?” It takes her a moment to realise Fíli is talking to her. She blinks, frowning when she realises that she’s stood in the doorway. Fíli turns to face her, his hands in his pockets, with flakes of snow catching in his hair. She glances over his shoulder, towards the hall, and shakes her head. She doesn’t want to go back to the party, but she doesn’t to be alone either.

“It’s snowing…” She says, glancing up at the dark, cloudy sky.

And then she sees it. And for the first time that night, she doesn’t sigh, or groan, or roll her eyes.

She smiles.

“Mistletoe.” She murmurs, staring up at the plant in wonder. “How did that get there?” Such an innocent little plant. White flakes of snow gathered upon dark green leaves, bound together with strips of red tinsel. Tilda’s work. She’d seen the same strips of tinsel in her hair.

Sigrid looks back at him, blinking against the snowflakes caught on her eyelashes. She _wants_ to kiss him, she realises. Not because of the mistletoe and fear of bad luck, but because she wants to. Maybe it’s the wine – maybe it’s something else – but when she slowly reaches out and touches his cheek, everything seems to have become oddly slow. Still. Like the calm in the eye of a storm. His cheek is warm under her fingers, the short hairs of his beard rough against her palm. Fíli’s eyes close and he leans into her touch.

“Sigrid…” He sighs, that sad, strained note seeping back into his voice. It’s the only warning she gets before he reaches up and takes her hand, lifting it away from his face. His eyes open, but he doesn’t look at her. He takes a step away from her, letting her hand go. “I’m sorry.”

He takes another step and then another. Sigrid turns, fleeing into the house before she has to watch him walk away from her. The door slams loudly behind her.

She falls back against the door, breathing hard for a long moment. Her fingers curl into her palm and she squeezes her eyes closed. The house is so quiet. She usually likes the quiet – used to seek it out sometimes when all the noise became too much. Bain and Tilda arguing, the floorboards creaking under her father’s boots as he paced, worrying and worrying about money, the fishermen shouting on the docks… She used to have a place, a quiet spot where she could hide away for a while. She doesn’t have that anymore. Wouldn’t want to go there now, even if she could. She opens her eyes and pushes away from the door, walking through the house to the kitchen.

The letter is still there. She notices it when she starts making herself some tea.

She doesn’t let herself think about Fíli. Refuses to. She sits down at the table, sipping her tea, and opens the letter. The letter is short, just one page of cramped, spidery handwriting. It takes her a few times to understand what it says. She doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring at the crinkled letter in her hands, wondering what to make of the words. She’s still sat there when the front door opens. Just one set of footsteps, heavy, followed by a sigh.

“Da?” She calls, her voice shaking.

“Sigrid, is that you, love? Why aren’t you at the -” Bard walks into the kitchen, shaking the snow from his hair, and sees something in her expression that makes him pause. His gaze falls to the letter in her hands. He strides towards her, brow etched in concern, and sits down beside her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Gared,” she whispers. Her voice catches. “There’s a girl. In Bree. She – she -”

“This girl wrote to you? About Gared?” Her father asks and she nods. “What did she say?”

“She… she wants my help. She has a child. Gared’s child.”

She releases a shaky breath, a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Bard wraps his arm around her shoulders, drawing her into his side. He makes soft, quiet sounds, soothing her. It makes her a moment to realise he thinks she’s upset because of Gared and the letter. She turns her face into the crook of his neck, closing her eyes against the sting of tears. When a few stray tears escape, running down her cheeks, it isn’t because of Gared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh, this chapter was hard work. writer's block is the worst. i do, however, have about 50% of the next chapter written already, so hopefully i'll get that done and posted in the next few days :)
> 
> and as always, thank you all so much for your feedback and support for this fic, hearing back from you guys always makes my day. i also want to make a huge shoutout to yatings, who has been nice enough to go through this fic and help me out with any grammar problems/mistakes i made along the way. you're awesome, thank you so much <3


	18. Chapter 18

Sigrid stands on the battlements, watching from above as the last of her people flock into the mountain for sanctuary. The first wisps of snow catch in her hair and she looks up at the darkening clouds, a promise of another storm in the night.  Even from within the mountain, she can hear the howling of the wind at night, the sound chasing her in her dreams. Her bed feels too big, her empty room lonely and cold. Three more had died in the night, an old man and two children. It had been the final straw for those who had initially refused to leave their homes for the mountain. Dale lies empty and devoid of life, the braziers dotted around the city walls unlit for the first time in years.

King Thorin has been kind to them, something she knows many did not expect.

If one good thing may come from this long, terrible winter, it is the hope of improved relations between her people and the Dwarves of Erebor. And, she hopes, the last of her people – clinging to ideas out of bitterness and anger – will finally see for themselves that they are allies, now and always.

They’ll be safe from the elements, the great forges keep the mountain warm, and there is enough space for them to keep away from the Dwarves if need be, but she knows it can only be a temporary solution. They can’t run into the mountain every winter nor can her people continue to freeze to death in their beds. No more living in rundown, half-restored houses. Next winter they’ll be more prepared…

“You shouldn’t be out here, _meldenya_.” She hears from her behind her, and she does not have to turn to know who it is.

Tauriel’s hand brushes against the small of her back as she comes to stand beside her. Her long hair whips around her face in the wind and her eyebrows are drawn in concern. A single braid hangs beside her face, the silver and sapphire bead catching in the light. Something bitter twists inside of her and she looks away. Tauriel’s gaze flickers from Sigrid to the people below and back, realisation dawning on her face. “It’ll be alright,” the Elf says with a comforting smile. “I promise.”

But no less than a week later, the first signs of sickness start to show.

The very old and the very young are the first to be affected, and it spreads faster than anyone could have imagined. Just a cough at first, easy to mistake for a simple cold, followed by headaches, a sore throat, nausea, sleeplessness, fever… _Sudden, savage changes,_ Oin describes it as, with no name to give to the illness.

There’s a large room in the healing wing that’s given to the dozen or so sick people, in the hope of containing the virus. Sigrid is no healer, she’s an apprentice – an assistant at best – but she can’t help but insist on being allowed to help, in whatever way she can. Oin doesn’t argue or try to deter her, he just presses a cloth face mask into her hands and warns her not to remove it once she steps inside the room.

On the fourth day, a woman, who had been healthy only days before, starts coughing up blood. She overhears a couple of Dwarves discussing what to do with the bodies – expecting there to be casualties – and has to leave the room. She locks herself in a storage cupboard with blood on her apron and under her nails and stays there for a long time. By the time she leaves the cupboard and returns to the sickbay, the woman is dead.

News of the woman’s death spreads quickly throughout the mountain.

Her people are afraid. She can see it in their eyes. Sickness hadn’t been uncommon in Laketown, but never anything like this. There is little for them to do in the mountain, no work to be done, and so there is little to distract them. They seem grateful – at least- that the Dwarves let them into the mountain, and the tension incensed by Evette and her people seems to have dwindled. But only time will tell with such things.

There’s so much for her to do and seeing a familiar face seems to help her people. There are those who disapprove, her Dwarf friends in particular. She can see it in Dara’s pursed lips and Glaran’s scowl whenever she catches sight of the two. But it’s more than just that – Dwarves don’t get sick the way humans do, so there’s little risk of them falling ill, but she feels eyes on her wherever she goes. She imagines they wonder how fragile humans really are, if the silly girl playing nursemaid will fall ill too, if their Prince will remarry a proper Dwarf lady once she’s gone -

Sigrid dismisses the dark, whispered thought the moment it enters her head.

She continues to avoid Fíli, burying herself in her work. She hasn’t spoken to him in the two weeks since the night of the Yule party. The next morning she had gone out, tearing the mistletoe down from the front porch and stomped it into the snow. She doesn’t trust herself around him, fearing what she might say or do when she’s bone-tired and not making any sense. She takes her meals with her family, avoids the main dining hall like the plague, and spends the majority of her time in the sickbay. She thinks she spots him once on her way to the sickbay; she doesn’t think, she just turns on her heel and hurries in the opposite direction. But in the end, much to her dismay, she can’t avoid him forever.

One day after the woman dies, Fíli finds her.

“I’m looking for my wife. Where is she?” She hears his voice before she sees him, hidden as she is behind a curtain dividing the beds.

Sigrid freezes. She can hear one of the healers responding, no doubt pointing out exactly where to find her.

“No, no, no.” She murmurs under her breath, hearing approaching footsteps. Mercifully, her patient is asleep and doesn’t notice.  She considers – for a brief, ridiculous second - hiding under the bed until he goes away. She shakes her head, dismissing the thought, and lowers the damp cloth in her hand onto her patient’s forehead. His fever is high, higher than it had been earlier in the day, and the herbs he’d been given haven’t seemed to have helped. She doesn’t know the man well – he’d been wounded after the battle, nearly lost his leg. She remembers how distraught his wife had been. His wife is in the sickbay too, in the bed beside his. Sigrid glances over at her and frowns. It isn’t right – it isn’t _fair –_ for those who have suffered through much to be further punished by the powers that be.

The curtain is dragged back and she doesn’t turn. Not at first.

“Sigrid.” Fíli says after what feels like a very long time. “I need to speak with you.”

“No ‘hello’? ‘How have you been’? ‘What a fine morning we’re having’?” She tells herself she meant it as a joke, but the words come out bitter and sarcastic. When Fíli doesn’t answer, she reluctantly glances over her shoulder, sighing quietly to herself. His eyes are guarded; they give nothing away, but his expression is serious – more serious than she'd ever seen him. “What is it? I’m a little busy at the moment, I don’t really have time to talk.”

“I need to speak with you.” He repeats, but then adds, with a hint of pleading, “Please, Sigrid.”

“I – alright, just – just give me a moment.” She lifts the cloth off of the man’s forehead and drops it back in the bowl of cold water at his bedside. She wipes her hands on her apron and nods, following reluctantly after Fíli. She feels like she’s a child again, being called up to the front of the class to be told off by the teacher. The way some of the others are watching them doesn’t help matters, watching curiously as Fíli leads her out of the sickbay.

She takes off her facemask once they’ve left the room, tucking it into her pocket.

“You’re not wearing your wedding ring.” He says, catching her off-guard.

“What? Oh – right, Oin asked us not to wear any jewellery.” She tells him, bewildered. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No,” Fíli sighs heavily. “It’s not. I just… wondered.”

“I see…” Sigrid awkwardly shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She’s still embarrassed and confused about what happened after the Yule party, it makes looking him in the eye a struggle. The whole night had been a mess. She still hasn’t spoken to Gared about the letter, has been avoiding him like the plague as well. There’s half a dozen crumpled up attempts at a response to the letter on the desk in her rooms. She’d snapped the nip on her pen trying to write the latest reply.

“I heard a woman died yesterday. Is that true?”

“Aye,” she sighs. She looks down at her hands, sure she can still see blood under her nails. “It’s true.”

He grimaces. “I’m sorry. Did you know her?”

“Not really. I think she was a maid in the Master’s household before – before everything. I don’t think she had any family – no one’s come forward…” Sigrid’s lips twist ruefully, her thoughts going to the poor woman’s funeral. With the road blocked by snow, her body will have to be burned outside the mountain, not near Dale or the lake.

“Has anyone else…” Fíli frowns, trailing off, as though trying to think of a way to broach the subject carefully. “Has anyone -”

She lifts her head, meeting his gaze. “No one else has died so far.”

“So far…” He echoes, looking at the double doors behind her with a troubled expression. “Mahal’s beard, Sigrid, you can’t go back in there.”

“What?” She frowns, confused. “Why?”

“Why?” Fíli laughs humourlessly. “Are you really asking me _why?”_

Sigrid shrugs, not entirely sure what he wants her to say. Fíli looks at her like she’s lost her mind, turning away to pace the width of the corridor. She’s tired, too tired to follow along with all the muttering he’s doing. She hasn’t slept more than three hours a night since the Yule party. And none of those night’s sleep were particularly peaceful. She catches one or two words in his language that she understands, but none of the rest makes any sense.

“Someone died.” He grits out, his hands balled into fists at his side.

“Yes, a patient -”

“Someone _died,_ Sigrid.” He repeats, his eyes flicker to her and then the doors behind her. “Can’t you see why I’m just a little bit concerned?”

“Of course I can, but -”

“But what?” He cuts in, his voice catching.

“Oin says the sickness is spread through the air, so as long I keep my facemask on I should be fine. There’s no need to worry about me.” She says, her tone softer than before. Fíli pauses, looking at her with a disbelieving expression. She shifts uneasily under his gaze, wringing her hands. “If – if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“You think I have no reason to be worried? I was worried before I even heard about the woman dying! I haven’t seen you in weeks and Dara told me that you’ve not been eating properly, that you barely sleep, that you spend all your time here.” His hand twitches towards her, looking for a moment like he might reach for her hand. “How am I supposed to not worry when I hear that?”

“Fíli…” She murmurs, at a loss for words.

It’s – confusing. For the lack of a better word. When he says things like that in one moment, yet pulls away from her in the next. She doesn’t know what to do – has never had experience with anything like this before. But she’s too tired to try to wrap her head around it now.

“You’re _human_. Why can’t you leave this to our Dwarven healers? They’re not in any danger of getting sick.” It’s not the first time she’s heard this. She’d heard it from Dara several times, and Glaran, and then from Bain. She sighs quietly, not wishing to rehash the same arguments she’d had with them with Fíli.

“There’s too many people. Too many for just the Dwarven healers to cope with. They need all the help they can get.” She says, choosing her words carefully. There are painfully few healers. If only they had Elven healers, the way they did after the battle. She imagines things would be much different.

Fíli lifts his head, giving her a long, searching look. “Why does it have to be you? I’m sure there are dozens of people willing to volunteer.”

“Why not me?” She frowns. “Why am I any different to anyone else?”

“You know why.” Fíli says quietly, with a heavy sigh.

“Because I’m a _lady?_ I’m meant to – what? Pretend I don’t see that people are suffering? You know I can’t do that.” The thought leaves a bad taste in her mouth. It reminds her too much of the Master and the way the man used to behave, to think that her life is more important than anyone else’s just because someone decided to put a crown on her father’s head.

“No.” He grumbles. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then why?”

“Because you’re my wife!” Fíli snaps, looking away from her with a scowl. Something about those words make her heart clench. They’ve had disagreements before, but something about this feels different. She’s never seen him looked so worked up, and never had his ire directed at her quite like this. “You can’t -” He bows his head, sighing heavily. “I don’t care about Oin’s precautions, it’s too much of a risk. You’re not going back in that room. I won’t allow it.”

She jerks back in surprise, staring at him in disbelief. “What?”

“That isn’t -” Fíli says, cursing under his breath. “What I mean is -”

“You won’t _allow_ it?” She repeats in disbelief.

He huffs in frustration. “It’s too dangerous, Sigrid. I can’t let you – you need to see that -”

“I’m not one of your _subjects_ , Fíli.” She cuts in, feeling her frustration mounting. “You can’t order me about.”

“No, but I am your husband -”

“And that means what exactly? That I am yours to rule over?”

He scoffs, a harsh and bitter sound. “And you do not rule over me? When I do _everything_ you ask of me? Do you not think people wonder why my wife doesn’t watch me fight? Why you don’t wear the gifts I make you? Why you _refuse_ to live in the mountain? Mahal save me - there is _nothing_ I wouldn’t do for you, and yet you won’t even do this one little thing for me!”

“It’s not a _little thing._ Not to me.” She argues, a little weaker than before, his revelation taking some of the wind out of her sails. “I can’t stand by and do nothing, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t help in whatever way I could.”

“And what help can you offer them? You’re not a healer, Sigrid. You what? Mop brows and fetch tea? Anyone can do that. You’re putting yourself in danger for nothing!” His tone is desperate – words that were probably not meant unkindly come out harsh – and her breath leaves her in a rush. There’s a knot in her chest, a pressure that won’t let up. She had thought he’d seemed proud of her when she told him about her plans to become a healer. To think that he had only been humouring her; it hurts more than it has any right to.

“I see…” She murmurs, her voice catching. She knows there are people within the mountain who call her a silly girl, playing the part of a healer, when she’s nothing more than a glorified nursemaid. And of all the people in the world, Fíli is the last she would have expected to think that of her.

He reaches out, taking hold of her wrist. “No one would think any less of you -”

“Why does it bother you so much?” She counters, hearing an unwanted echo of Gared’s words at the Yule party. _It’s not like you’re really married anyway. Why should he care?_ Her eyes sting with tears and looks away, blinking furiously. She refuses to let him see her cry. She can only stand so much humiliation in one day. “I don’t understand, it’s not like - why do you even care -”

The words are lost when his fingers tighten like a vice around her wrist and tug her forwards. She stumbles over her own feet and strong hands catch her shoulders. She catches a brief glimpse of Fíli’s face before he stretches onto the tips of his toes, his face set with a hard, determined look. Her lips part in surprise before he closes the remaining space between them and kisses her.

A kiss – rougher than she would have imagined, with a scrape of beard and a hint of teeth – that gentles after a moment, with Fíli seeming to pour everything he cannot say into it. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers that this isn’t the first time they’ve kissed. On their wedding day, a kiss that was nothing more than a light brush of lips, over so quickly she’d barely felt it. This is… this is nothing like that. One hand slides up her neck and cups her jaw, calloused fingers gently brushing against her cheek. She doesn’t move – she’s frozen in shock – and then he’s gone, tearing away before she can even think to react.

Fíli stalks away from her, running his hands down his face. She touches the tips of her fingers to her lips, still tingling from his kiss, still frozen in place. She’d been kissed before – but never like that. She doesn’t know what to say – what to think – and when he looks back at her with looks like defeat in his eyes, she doesn’t know what to do.

“Forgive me.” Fíli says, and then he’s gone, walking away from her. Gone before she even knows how to react.

 

* * *

 

Days pass and Sigrid does her best to put what happened with Fíli out of her mind. More and more patients are brought in, the sickness still spreading at an alarming rate even with the quarantine set up. Sigrid is in the sickbay, sitting at a patient’s bedside, trying to get them to eat something when there is a commotion outside of the room. She doesn’t even know anything is wrong until the doors burst open and a messenger rushes in, calling out her name.

“It’s Prince Bain, m’lady. We think he’s sick -”

Before the messenger can even finish her sentence, her father bursts into the room, carrying Bain in his arms, staggering under his weight. Sigrid is on her feet before she can even process what’s she’s seeing, running across the sickbay. Bard lays Bain down carefully on the bed nearest the door and Sigrid feels her heart lurch in her chest. _No,_ she thinks, _not him._ And then, desperately – _anyone but him._

Once she reaches the bed, she stumbles, her breath leaving her in a rush. She catches herself on the bedpost and clutches onto it, her knuckles turning white. Oin’s first lesson had been that as a healer, she must endeavour to see every situation clinically and rationally, never to let emotions come into play. But it’s different when it’s her brother - her _little brother_ – who is pale and still and with blood staining the front of his shirt. She doesn’t know how to separate herself from that. Instinctively, she tears off her facemask and presses it into her father’s hands.

“Put it on, Da. Please.” _You need it more than I do,_ is left unsaid.

Bard tears his gaze away from Bain, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “But you –”

“I’ll be fine.” Her shaking hands give her away. She hides them behind her back. “Now tell me what happened.”

“He was fine. He was - but then his nose started bleeding and then – then he just collapsed.”

She lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, dragging in a shaky breath as she presses the backs of her fingers against his forehead. He’s warm but not burning up like most of the patients in the sickbay. It’s both a good sign and a bad one. It means it’s either nothing or that he’s only going to get worse. She brushes his messy fringe away from his face and carts her fingers through his hair. He’d always liked that when he was little, before he got too old and too _mature_ to let his sister brush his hair.

She closes her eyes and runs down the list in her head. _Clinically and rationally_. Sit him up if the nosebleed starts again. Apply a cold compress to bring down his fever. Remove his bloodstained tunic. Feel his neck for swelling. He’ll need crushed feverfew. Hot tea with honey and ginger. Herbs mixed into water. A constant, well stocked fire. Blankets -

Healers hurry up to the bed, arriving far more prepared than she had been. She stands aside, flattening her back against the wall to keep out of their way. Bard presses the mask to his face, wearing a stricken expression.

Their assessment doesn’t take long.

“I don’t believe the Prince is in imminent danger,” one of the Dwarven healers says. She watches as the healers carefully pull Bain’s bloody tunic over his head and toss it aside, her hands clenched into tight fists to stop them from trembling. “He’s young and healthy and should be back on his feet in a few days. It’s best he’s kept here though, to lessen the chance of the sickness spreading. Someone’ll need to watch over him, make sure his condition doesn’t worsen -”

“I’ll do it.” She cuts in, offering before her father can. He can’t afford to fall ill, their people need him too much.

Dimly, Sigrid is aware of her father protesting, but she chooses to ignore him. There’s a bowl of water by Bain’s bedside already; she dips a cloth into it and rings out the excess water. She drags a stool up to the side of Bain’s bed, lays the cold, damp cloth over his forehead, and draws the thick covers up to his chin.

“He’ll be alright, Da.” Sigrid says, her gaze flickering to her father. “I’ll look after him.”

Bard smiles faintly. “I know you will, love.”

Her father is dragged away not long after, practically forcibly removed. It’s for the best, Sigrid tells herself and touches Bain’s cheek. He’d been so young the last time she can remember him getting sick. Tilda had only been two or three, she’d had to stay with Gunnar and Gerda. He’d had to stay in bed and out of school for a week. She’d stayed home with him, as her father had to work, and read him stories and fed him soup. Sigrid’s lower lip trembles, a lump forming in her throat, and she grasps his hand, holding onto it tightly.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, willing him to wake up. His condition doesn’t seem to change. She keeps a cold compress on his forehead, hoping it’ll keep the fever at bay, and waits, silently praying for him to wake up. The healers don’t bother her, nor do they pester her to get back to work. It’s selfish, to fix all her attention on one patient when there are so many, but he’s her little brother, she can’t be anywhere but by his side. Absently, she wonders if anyone has told Tilda – she hopes no one has, to spare her from worrying.

 _Clinically and rationally,_ she thinks to herself. _Impossible._

At some point, she must fall asleep because she wakes up slumped over, with her head resting on the mattress beside Bain’s hand. She sits up slowly, groggy, with her neck stiff and aching. The sickbay is quiet, the curtains drawn around Bain’s bed. She rubs her eyes and yawns, realising then, for the first time, that she wasn’t wearing a facemask, that she had given it away to her father and not found another one. But she’s too tired, too worried about Bain, to give it a second thought.

Bain is still asleep, breathing slow and heavy.

She studies him for a long moment, her eyes searching for any changes. His cheeks are still flushed, while the rest of him is pale. She reaches out, brushing his hair off of his forehead. He’s still warm, his hair sticking to his skin with sweat.

“Sigrid?” Kíli’s voice startles her, nearly sends her toppling off her stool. The room spins around her; it takes a few seconds for it to still. She looks up in time to see the Dwarf Prince poke his head through the gap in the curtains and sigh dramatically in relief when he lays eyes on her. “Thank Mahal. This is the third bed I’ve tried so far.”

“Kíli, you shouldn’t be in here.” She murmurs once she’s recovered, righting herself on her stool.

He snorts and points at himself. “Dwarf, remember? Don’t get sick the same as you lot.”

“Right…” She says, frowning slightly. “What are you doing here?”

Kíli grins. “Would you believe me if I said I was just in the area and thought I’d drop by?”

“No,” she says, too tired to play along with whatever game he’s playing.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Fíli sent me. He didn’t want me to tell you that though.” Kíli says, rolling his eyes. Her head is throbbing, making it difficult to follow along with what he’s saying. “I don’t know why he couldn’t come himself. He’s been acting strange lately, don’t you think? All moody and Thorin-like, ever since the day of the Yule party.”

Her eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”

Kíli scratches his chin, his expression thoughtful. “Well, he had this long meeting with Thorin and Balin first thing in the morning and wouldn’t tell me what it was about. And then he went and sparred with Mum all morning and wouldn’t tell me what that was about either. He _hates_ sparring with Mum, just as much as he hates meetings with Thorin and Balin. But I guess that doesn’t really matter right now. He wanted me to see how Bain is and to check if you’re alright.” Kíli walks over to Bain’s bed, frowning, as if noticing her brother for the first time. “How is he?”

“I don’t know.” She sighs. “The healers said he should be fine but…”

Kíli cocks his head to one side. “But?”

“I… I just have this feeling…” She says and Kíli grimaces sympathetically.

“This is probably a stupid question, but how are you holding up? Is there anything I can do?” Kíli asks carefully, his concern seeming real. She doesn’t know how to answer. She looks at Bain and then back at Kíli, shaking her head.  

Kíli hesitates before he puts his hand on her shoulder. The weight is his hand is familiar, and yet – it isn’t the same. She closes her eyes against the sting of tears. She hates that in that moment, what she wants most – aside from Bain and everyone else in the room to make some miraculous recovery - is for Fíli to be the one there with her. She buries her head in her hands and sucks in a deep, shaky breath.

“It’ll be alright.” Kíli tells her. She wishes she could believe him.

 

* * *

 

Sigrid knows something is wrong the moment she thinks she sees her mother.

There’s a woman standing in the sickbay. First she sees her out the corner of her eye and then stood against the far wall. Wherever she looks, the woman seems to somehow always be in her gaze. Unnatural light catches in her hair, lit by candlelight that isn’t there. Her blue dress stands out against the colourlessness of the sickbay. But that isn’t why Sigrid’s gaze lingers on her. She can’t make out her face from so far away, yet she _knows_ somehow that it’s her.

She hasn’t seen her mother in over thirteen years. The last time she had seen her, her cheeks had been flushed, her eyes bright with fever, but she had looked so happy. She’d pressed Tilda into her arms, introducing her to her new sister. Her father hadn’t let them see her body, hadn’t wanted them to remember her like that.

The woman tilts her head to one side and if she closes her eyes, she can picture her smile. The same bright, happy smile she remembers from that night, so very long ago. Sigrid drags in a shaky breath and glances around the sickbay, wondering if anyone else if seeing what she’s seeing. It’s quiet – sometime in the early morning – with only one or two healers checking on the patients. Bain is still trapped in an uneasy, fitful sleep, his cheeks flushed, and with beads of sweat gathering on his brow without the cold compress. She has a strange impulse to shake him awake, to show him –

“Sigrid?” She blinks and suddenly one of the healers is stood in front of her, looking at her strangely. She can’t remember the healer’s name, even though she’s talked to him a dozen times before. The name is barely more than an afterthought though, as she peers around the healer’s shoulder, trying to see if the woman is still stood watching her. _Don’t leave me,_ she thinks desperately, _please don’t leave me._ She doesn’t realise she’s mumbling the words until the healer takes a step towards her. “What was that? Speak up, m’lady.”

“I – nothing.” Her voice is raspy, she has to clear her throat. “Apologies, I was a million miles away.”

“You should get some rest, lass. You look dead on your feet.”

 _An interesting turn of phrase,_ she thinks as her gaze flickers to the woman stood in the corner of the room.

“No, I can’t – I can’t leave him.” Sigrid mumbles, gesturing towards Bain.

The healer smiles kindly. “You’re no good to him like this. Get some rest, we’ll send for you if anything in his condition changes.”

She finds herself nodding, even though she wants nothing more than to stay. The thought of her room – dark and cold and lonely – has her hesitating. In the end it takes the healer wrapping an arm around her waist and physically guiding her out of the room to get her to leave.

She drags her feet, pretending that the dark, empty corridors aren’t swirling around her. A couple of guards pass her, shooting her strange looks. Their eyes seem to glow in the dark. It makes her hurry, she stumbles down the long corridor, using the wall to find her way back to her room. Everything seems slower, like she’s wading through water.

Sweat runs down her brow, but her fingers are like ice against her skin when she swipes her palm across her forehead.

She’s so cold. Her teeth are chattering in spite of the sweat practically pouring off of her. Ridiculously, for a brief second, she imagines crawling into Fíli’s bed. Ever since the Yule, she’s longed for warmth and a dreamless night’s sleep. Sigrid shakes her head, as if to force the thoughts out of her head. She’s just so _cold._ And her own bed is never as warm or as comfortable as she needs it to be.

Deep down, she knows. She knows something is wrong but in her head she’s so _tired_ and delirious and that drowns out all the rest. There are reasons – _real reasons -_ for the chill seeping into her bones, but she’s certain that if she looks behind her, the woman would be there. Whispers tug at the edges of her consciousness, raising the fine hairs on her arms. _Hallucinations,_ she tries to tell herself. It’s not real – it’s a side effect of a bad fever – but it feels real.

Sigrid looks back and her breath catches in her throat.

The woman is there, only she’s not who she hoped she’d be. She’s her mother but not as she remembers her. Her skin is white, her eyes lifeless, her smile sad. _Go away,_ Sigrid thinks, all the while telling herself over and over again that it isn’t real. She’d had fever dreams before but never like this – never when she was awake.

She stumbles into her room, knocking over something in the dark. Glass shatters, the sound impossibly loud. Her hands are trembling too much to loosen the knot on her apron. There’s still blood under her nails. She can’t see it but she feels like she can feel it. She tries to walk over to the washbasin to wash it off but her knees give out. She stumbles into her armchair and groans.

Dimly she’s aware of another door opening, thinks she might hear a voice, but everything is a blur around her. Her heart pounds wildly in her ears, drowning out everything else, and then the ground rushes up to meet her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not 100% happy with this chapter, but i promised i'd post it soon, so i might just come back to it later on (it's 2 am here so i really should be going to bed sometime soon). 
> 
> anyway! thank you for reading, and i hope you all had a happy new year! <3


	19. Chapter 19

There’s a gap in the curtains, letting a thin ray of sunlight into the room. Sigrid’s eyes open a crack, squinting, that one stray beam of light seeming impossibly bright. The room is still dark but somewhere there are birds singing, meaning it must be early morning. Early enough for her to get a few more hours sleep. There’s something she needs to do but her head is fuzzy, too tired to think about what that might be. Sigrid rolls onto her stomach with a muffled groan, her limbs tired and aching. The room is cold, far colder than normal. The fire must not have been lit before she went to bed. She shivers and tugs her blankets tighter around herself.

Dimly, she’s aware of voices, speaking quietly nearby. The voices become clearer the more she wakes up.

“Have you been here all night?” A low, soft voice asks, familiar and yet – she can’t place it. “You should get some sleep.”

“I can’t -” Her eyes open, recognising Fíli’s voice. “Not until – not until she wakes up.”

“Fíli?” Sigrid’s voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper. She struggles to sit up, her body feeling strangely heavy. She can barely manage to prop herself up on her elbows. Fíli and the other person in the room don’t seem to notice her. They keep talking in low tones, making it difficult for her to make out what they’re saying. It seems to take a long time for her eyes to adjust enough to the dark to make out the other person. Tall, long red hair, wearing a dark green dressing gown. “Tauriel? What are you -”

It’s almost comical, the way Fíli whirls around. One of the beads on his moustache almost hits him in the eye.

He takes a step towards her, and then stops dead in his tracks.

Fíli says something to Tauriel that she can’t quite make out and the Elf frowns slightly, but nods. Sigrid glances between the two of them, still confused about what’s going on, but before she can ask, Tauriel crosses the room and lowers herself onto the edge of Sigrid’s bed, sighing quietly. Fíli remains stood at the foot of her bed, seeming determined not to look at her. Sigrid’s gaze lingers on him, lost. She hasn’t seen him for days – not since the kiss she half-believes she imagined.

There’s a gash across the bridge of his nose that wasn’t there the last time she saw him. There are dark circles under his eyes that hadn’t been there either. Her fingers twitch towards him instinctively, torn between wanting to soothe and to scold. It takes Tauriel reaching out and touching her cheek to draw her attention away from him.

“ _Meldenya,_ why didn’t you tell us you were sick?” Tauriel asks, gently brushing a loose strand of hair away from Sigrid’s face.

“I’m not.” Sigrid mumbles, her throat dry, and her voice still barely more than a whisper.

“Sigrid,” Tauriel says in a chiding tone. “Fíli found you passed out on the floor.”

She blinks. “When? How long have I been asleep?”

“Not long. A couple of hours.” Fíli answers from the foot of the bed, his gaze still fixed pointedly on the floor.

“But that – I -” The fog clears and everything hits her at once. “Oh no, no, no, no. _Bain._ I need – I have to -” She struggles with the cacoon of blankets wrapped around her as she tries to sit up, coughing hard. Everything swirls around her for a moment and her head aches something fierce. Just as she’s managed to throw the blankets off of her and is about to sit up, Tauriel presses her hands against Sigrid’s shoulders and pushes her back down onto the mattress. “What are you doing? I have to go -”

“Don’t even think about it, you’re not going anywhere until a healer has seen to you.” Tauriel warns.

She glares up at the Elf looming over her. “I’m _fine.”_

“Oh really?” Tauriel aches one brow and glances over her shoulder at Fíli. “Did you hear that, Fíli? She’s fine! Fainting is perfectly normal.” Tauriel rolls her eyes when she looks back at Sigrid, lifting one hand off of her shoulder to press the backs of her fingers against her forehead. “What about having a fever? You’re burning up, _meldenya,_ you’re not _fine.”_

“I’m not sick.” She says, wincing as she holds back another coughing fit.

Tauriel sighs heavily and throws up her hands in defeat. “Fíli, talk some sense into your wife. I’ll go see what’s taking the healers so long.”

The Elf shoots her a look before she withdraws her hands. Sigrid remains still, doesn’t try to get up again until Tauriel is out of the room. She pushes herself up and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, her head aching. There must be a window open somewhere – it’s freezing in her room. Her teeth won’t stop chattering and yet - Fíli is in just a loose tunic and trousers. She doesn’t understand how he’s not cold.

She knows something isn’t right – she isn’t so stubborn that she’d refuse to see what’s right in front of her – but she can’t be sick, not when Bain needs her.

“Is this the part where you say ‘I told you so’?” She mutters in a weak attempt at a joke, feeling Fíli’s gaze on her. She’d taken her facemask off, given it to her father, and forgotten to get another one. A mistake. A stupid mistake that’ll prove Fíli and everyone else right. She’s just a silly girl, playing nursemaid, in way over her head. She lowers her hands from her face and glances across at him. There she sees the same strained, sad look she’d seen in his eyes on the night of the Yule party. Knowing she’s the cause of it – she has to look away, releasing a shaky breath. “Sorry,” she sighs. “Bad joke.”

“I know you’re worried about Bain, but – just wait to see what the healers have to say, alright?” He says wearily, and resignedly, like he expects her to argue.

“Alright.” She relents and his brows quirk up in surprise.

“Thank you.” He says and ducks his head, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“You don’t have to -” She begins to say, frowning. She looks away, at a loss for words. The air between them feels tense, uncomfortably so. She realises then, when she glances down, that she’s still fully dressed. She’s still not wearing her wedding ring either. It’s still in the top drawer of her desk. Her hand feels strangely bare without it. She rubs the empty space where the ring usually sits, struggling to find the right words to say. She’s missed him. It feels like a long time has passed since the Yule party. But before she can say or do anything, she hears a door opening and a moment later, Oin bustles into the room.

“Before you ask, Bain is doing just fine.” Oin says, knowing her all too well. “His fever broke early in the morning.”

“Is he awake?” She asks as Oin sets his satchel of supplies down and sits down on the bed beside her. The Dwarf grunts in response and reaches out, lifting her head and gently feeling for swelling in her neck. Oin tuts under his breath and lifts one hand off of her neck to feel her forehead. “I sent Tauriel down to check on him.” The Dwarf says and then tuts again. He takes his hand off of her forehead and makes her stick out her tongue. She knows what he’s looking for, knows the checklist he’ll be going over in his head.

“You’re running a high fever.” Oin eventually tells her, slowly getting to his feet. “You need rest, lass, and plenty of it.”

She thinks she hears Fíli sigh from where he’s still stood at the foot of her bed.

“Does that mean I need to move to the sickbay?” She asks, hopeful – at least there she will be with Bain.

“No, you need rest and you’ll not get any there. You’ll be trying to help your brother and we can’t have that.” Oin’s stern expression softens and he touches her shoulder, giving it a small, comforting squeeze. “He’s in good hands, lass. No need to worry. Just focus on getting better, eh?”

Oin smiles at her before he turns on Fíli, waving his ear trumpet at him. “You, you’ll watch over the lass, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Fíli says, straightening and clasping his hands behind his back. Looking very much the picture of a soldier taking orders. “But I - uh – I don’t know what needs doing. How to help, I mean.”

“Don’t worry,” she mutters, a part of her still a little hurt and bitter. “I’ve heard anyone can do it.”

For a brief moment, it looks like Fíli is going to say something. He stares at her from across the room with an unreadable expression on his face, but turns away when Oin barks something at him and bows his head.

As Oin goes over the medicine and different sorts of herbs she’ll need to take with Fíli, Sigrid works on getting out of bed. As if in protest, she doubles over, coughing hard into the crook of her elbow. The conversation falls quiet behind her and she thinks hears Oin mutter something in Khuzdul before he turns away, looking like he’s about to leave the room.

“Wait,” she calls after him. Oin half-turns, holding his ear trumpet up to his ear. “My father -”

“Aye, I’ll tell him. Don’t you worry, lass.”

“No, you mustn’t tell him or my sister – _especially_ not my sister. _Please.”_

Oin frowns, looking like he’s about to argue with her, but Fíli says something she doesn’t understand and the healer sighs. He holds up his hands in surrender and nods. The Dwarf leaves the room without saying anything more. Sigrid sags against her pillows in relief. She doesn’t let herself revel in the moment for long however. She presses her palms flat against the edge of her mattress and pushes herself onto her feet. She sways on unsteady legs and clutches onto the bedpost while she waits for the room to cease spinning.

“Sigrid?” Fíli frowns, rounding the side of the bed. “Don’t - you heard what Oin said, you need to –”

“I need to get out of these clothes.” She says, mostly to herself, and he stops short.

“Oh.” His eyes flicker to her and then away. He gestures towards the door, shuffling his feet. “Should – should I -?”

A small smile tugs at her lips. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

Fíli nods once before he ducks out of the room, closing the double doors behind him. Sigrid’s gaze lingers on the closed doors for a moment, head tilted to one side in thought. When it comes to Fíli she doesn’t know what she feels – it’s a jumbled mess of anger, hurt, and confusion – but she’s glad he’s with her, all the same.

She turns away from the doors when another cough wracks through her, her eyes watering as she makes her way over to her dresser. She fumbles with the knot on her apron and all but rips the thing off. She tosses it aside, grateful that her dress is a simple one without a corset and with only a few lace fastenings at the back. She sheds her dress - leaving it in a heap on the floor, too tired to pick it up and fold it neatly - and pulls a loose nightdress over her head. She finds an old, knitted cardigan and a pair of thick socks to put on over her wool stockings, but is still shivering when she wanders over to the doors and wordlessly ushers Fíli back in.

She returns to the warmth of her bed, sighing as she slips back under the covers, but Fíli doesn’t follow her. He lingers in the doorway, his shoulders tensed, and his expression strained.

“Why don’t you want your father to know?”

“Because he’ll want to be here and if he gets sick and -” She stops short, unable to finish the thought. “Someone needs to take care of Tilda.”

Fíli frowns but says no more. Hanging his head, he wrings his hands together – a nervous tic of hers she’s never seen in him. She pats the empty space beside her in an unspoken invitation. She pretends not to feel disappointed when Fíli chooses to drag the armchair from the corner of the room to her bedside.

“You should get some rest.” He says and she hums quietly, agreeing.

It isn’t long before she falls asleep, cold and shivering under a mountain of blankets. She sleeps in fits and starts, unbearably hot at one moment and cold the next. She tosses and turns with her body aching in protest. She’s dimly aware of voices at some point, speaking in low voices somewhere near her, and then a rough hand pressing against her forehead. Another hand, far more gentle, brushes a loose lock of hair away from her face. She isn’t aware of much after that.

Minutes, maybe hours later, Sigrid wakes with a start, gasping for breath.

She rolls onto her back with a groan, pressing the heels of her hands into her aching temples. She slowly pushes herself to a sitting position and closing her eyes until the dizziness passes. Once the room has stopped spinning, she leans back against the headboard and looks around the room, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dark.

Fíli is asleep in the armchair beside her bed, holding a dagger and a whetstone in each hand. She smiles warmly at the sight.

The room is quiet, save for the crackling of the fire. The curtains are drawn and there’s no light peeking through the slight gap, meaning it must be late in the evening. She frowns slightly, wondering if she’d been asleep all day. She can’t remember much, only bits and pieces that all seem to blur together. She remembers her dreams more than anything. Nightmares filled with fire and smoke. They make her long for the few dreamless nights she’d had with Fíli.

Sigrid climbs out of bed slowly, carefully, a little steadier on her feet than before. She tiptoes out of the room in search of something to eat. She’s not particularly hungry, but she knows she needs to at least try to eat something.

There’s an untouched tray of food in her sitting room with a small loaf of bread, some butter and jam, and some very cold scrambled eggs. What would have been her breakfast, she imagines. There’s a cup of tea that she throws back, not realising how thirsty she was until she saw it. It’s cold and tastes horrible but she doesn’t care.

She glances over her shoulder, considering the double doors for a moment. It doesn’t take her long to make up her mind.

The doors creak but Fíli shows no sign of waking. Even in his sleep, he looks tense. His eyelashes flutter and a crease forms between his brows, making her wonder what he might be dreaming about. She puts down her tray of food and lowers herself onto the edge of the bed opposite him, hesitating before she gingerly plucks the dagger from his loose grip and sets it down next to her. He stirs, grumbling in his sleep. She presses her lips together, supressing a smile.

“Fíli.” She whispers, laying her hand on his knee. “Fíli, wake up.”

He jerks awake like she’d slapped him. His wide-eyed gaze settles on her, a look of alarm crossing his face.

“Sorry!” She exclaims, instinctively rubbing his knee. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He blinks slowly several times, his brows drawn together. “Sigrid? What – what are you – how are you feeling?”

“Better,” she smiles.

Her hand is still resting on his knee. They both seem to notice at the same time. He shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. She blushes deeply and pulls away, curling her fingers into her palm. She clears her throat and glances at the tray beside her, only just remembering it was there. “If you’re hungry, I found some food.”

“I’m alright. You go ahead.”

She shuffles back, sitting cross-legged on the bed while she helps herself to some bread and jam. An uncomfortable silence falls between them while she eats, awkwardly looking anywhere but at him. He seems to do the same – he sits in the armchair opposite her, inspecting a small scratch on the back of his hand like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“What happened?” She asks eventually, unable to bear the silence any longer, and gestures towards the gash on his nose.

He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Ah, nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.” She counters, cocking her head to one side. “Is it broken?”

“I don’t think so.” He replies, rubbing the nape of his neck. She purses her lips and he hurriedly adds, “Haven’t – ah - had a chance to check.”

“Let me see.” Sigrid sighs wearily and shifts closer to him.

“No, it’s fine. You don’t need to –” He begins to say in protest, but she chooses to ignore him.

It’s a struggle, fighting to keep her eyes open, but she needs to make sure his nose isn’t broken. She knows he wouldn’t say anything, even if he was in pain – the damn, foolish Dwarf. There isn’t any sign of bruising around his nose, though the dark circles under his eyes look like they almost could be bruises, and there doesn’t appear to be any swelling. She carefully feels around the gash, biting her lip to stop herself from coughing.

“So what happened?” She asks again, carefully wiping away a smear of dried blood off of his cheek.

“Sigrid…” Fíli says slowly, reaching up and drawing her hand away from his face. He releases her hand at once and looks away, his jaw clenching. “It’s nothing, just a scrape.” She scoffs quietly, disagreeing, and the corner of his lip twitches before he continues. “I was sparring with my mum and I -”

“Wait,” she cuts in. “Your _mother_ did this to you?”

“Not on purpose.” He says and then shrugs after a beat. “Well, not entirely on purpose. We… we were arguing. She thought sparring might help. But I was distracted, I didn’t move out of the way fast enough. My own fault.”

“What were you arguing about?”

Fíli laughs, a breathless nervous sound she’s never heard from him before.

“Oin left some medicine around here somewhere.” He says instead, avoiding the question. His eyes flicker away from her, looking around the room. He gets to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck as he walks around the room, looking for whatever Oin had left for her. Sigrid watches him, puzzled. _So much for not keeping things from each other_ , she thinks to herself and sighs under her breath. 

He had kissed her. That happened. It was real. And now she doesn’t know where they stand. But neither does he, it seems. He hands her a small vial of dark liquid she’d seen in the sickbay without a word and sits back down on the armchair beside the bed. Fíli holds himself so rigidly, he barely even looks at her.

Sigrid throws back the contents of the vial, wincing at the taste.

She knows better than to ask him if he wants to stay with her or not. He’ll stay because Oin told him to.

“Why do you fight with two swords?” She finds herself asking to fill the silence.

Fíli quirks a brow, glancing up at her for a brief moment. “What made you think of that?”

She shrugs in response.

“It just came naturally.” He answers after a moment’s consideration. “I thought – I can write with both hands, so why not fight with both as well?”

She hums thoughtfully. “You can write with both hands? I didn’t know that.”

Sigrid frowns, realising that she doesn’t even know what his handwriting looks like. They’ve never written to each other, never exchanged notes or cards – nothing. The more she thinks about it, the more she realises how much she doesn’t know about him. She doesn’t even know when his birthday is. Wouldn’t even know when to give him a gift. Or what to give him, for that matter.

“When’s your birthday?” She blurts out, all of a sudden desperately needing to know.

“In the spring.” He replies and finally – _finally –_ looks at her. “Yours is some time in the middle of summer, right?”

“Yeah, the day before the summer solstice. How’d you know?”

His eyes flicker away and he shrugs. “Someone must have mentioned it.”

Her eyebrows lift a fraction. “Who?”

”Don’t remember who.” He replies, avoiding her gaze as he reaches for his dagger and whetstone.

Sigrid’s eyes narrow, sensing a lie.

Everything hurts – her head, her throat, her whole damn body – and she’s exhausted, but she’d be able to bare all of it if Fíli would just act like his usual self – the person she’s grown to care about – instead of the strange, distant person sat opposite her. As it is, it’s too much. She’s too tired to do what she’d usually do in such a situation - smile politely and pretend she’s fine.

“I’m tired.” She says, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat. “I’m going to go back to sleep. You… you don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to.” She turns away before he can respond, moving the tray to her bedside table so she can get back under the covers. The medicine was just to help her sleep. She can already feeling it, her eyelids growing heavier by the second. She rolls onto her side, away from Fíli, and closes her eyes. It doesn’t take long for the medicine to take effect. She falls asleep listening to the sound of Fíli dragging a dagger over a whetstone.

It’s not a soothing sound.

 

* * *

 

When she wakes up, it takes her a long moment to realise she’s alone. The armchair beside her bed is empty.

The armchair looks strange and out of place without Fíli in it. She looks away, telling herself she’s better off without him there.

Desperate for something to drink, she slides her legs to the edge of the bed and very slowly gets to her feet. Her legs are weak and shaky, she barely takes a step before she stumbles. She catches herself on her bedside table, uses it and then the wall to help herself into the bathroom.

There’s a small glass vase in the bathroom that had had flowers in it at some point. She rinses it out and fills it up with water. She throws back glass after glass of water, nearly choking on it in her desperation, until the fire in her throat settles. She glances up, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. She looks about as bad as she feels, her eyes are bright with fever and shadowed by dark circles that look almost like bruises. Her cheeks are flushed but the rest of her skin is ashen, nearly grey. She tries to be reasonable – _logical –_ and remember everything the healers taught her but it’s all a blur.

A bath, she decides. She definitely needs a bath. She sheds her clothes until she’s stood in just her smallclothes as she waits for the tub to fill. The steam coming off the water is a welcome sight as she stands, shivering, with her teeth chattering so loudly she’s sure the whole mountain can hear her. She’s never been more grateful for ingenious Dwarven plumbing. All the soap and perfumed oils leave the surface of the water covered in a thick layer of bubbles that tickle her toes when she tests the temperature of the water. The water is hot – probably a touch too hot – but she’s too cold to care. She undresses and sinks into the water with a contented sigh.

She scrubs the sweat and the grime from her skin, all the while struggling with her eyelids growing steadily more heavy. She tips her head back, wetting her hair, too tired to bother with washing it. While the tub is deep and wide, it’s a bit on the shorter side, built with a Dwarf in mind and not a human. Dara had mentioned getting it replaced but she had told her not to bother. She hadn’t expected to live in the mountain again. In the end, she props her feet up on the foot of the bath and leans her head against the side of the tub. Her eyelids droop and she lets them fall closed.

The warmth of the water lulls her back to sleep.

She doesn’t know how long she sleeps for – but it can’t be very long because the water is still warm – before she’s jolted awake by the sound of someone saying her name.

Her eyes open slowly, reluctantly. She hears her name again but can’t tell where the sound is coming from. She blinks slowly, blearily, trying to focus her eyes. Her neck is stiff and she winces when she tries to lift her head.

“Sigrid – _Sigrid –_ Mahal’s beard, are you trying to drown yourself?” A weary voice demands from beside her, dragging a small smile out of her.

“Fíli,” she sighs. “I thought you left.”

“Only for a little while.” His voice is soft, whispered against her cheek as his gentle hands carefully pull her up and onto her feet. Her thoughts are too scattered and hazy for her to care much about modesty. She leans against him as he wraps a towel and around her, resting her cheek against the top of his head. His hair is soft and smells like straw and something else, something she can’t put her finger on.

She doesn’t realise her eyes have closed again until she’s suddenly being lifted off of her feet.

She giggles deliriously, imagining she looks quite the giant in his arms. But he’s strong, stronger than she would have expected – he doesn’t stagger under her weight, doesn’t make her feel like there’s even the slightest chance of him dropping her. He carries her to her bed and sets her down carefully. She tips her head back to look at his face and her breath catches in her throat.

There’s concern etched into every feature of his face.

Everything is strange, hazy - nothing makes much sense, but she knows how to read him. She knows when something is wrong. Fíli lifts one hand and pushes the wet curtain of hair back from her face. She catches his hand before he can take it back. He seems to hesitate for a moment before he turns his hand, wrapping his calloused fingers around hers.

“I need you to tell me what to do, Sigrid.” Fíli tells her, speaking so quietly she barely hears him. She leans forward a little, clutching her towel to her. “I don’t know how to help you. Should I go get someone? Dara? Tauriel? One of the healers? Anyone you want -”

“No.” She mumbles, her face scrunching up in confusion as she struggles to gather her thoughts.

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I need you to tell me. You’re the healer, not me. Fighting is all I know.”

Sigrid frowns, remembering their last conversation. “Am I? I thought I just fetched tea and mopped brows?”

“I’m sorry.” He says, gripping her hand almost painfully tight. “I’m so sorry. I should never have said that.”

“But you did.” She mutters, peering at him through her lashes. Fíli’s grip on her hand loosens enough that she can take it back. She pretends not to see the flash of hurt in his eyes. “If that’s how you feel, then why did you encourage me? Were you just humouring me the whole time, telling me what I want to hear so I -”

“ _No.”_ Fíli reaches out and grasps her face in his hands, making her look at him. “I didn’t mean what I said. Not a word. I was – I _am_ – so proud of you, Sigrid. I don’t know if you know this, but I used to come down to the healing wing sometimes just to watch you work – you always looked so happy and _sure_ of yourself. If I made you doubt that… I’m sorry, I was just scared – Mahal save me, when I heard about that poor woman dying, I was so scared. All I could think about was you.”

Fíli’s hands fall away. He turns away from her, sighing heavily. She stares at the curve of his back, struggling to find the right words to say while fighting with her own body to stay awake. Unwavering and steady, that was how she had come to see Fíli. That image seems to crumble before her very eyes. She doesn’t think she has ever seen him so vulnerable, laid open for her to see all the things otherwise kept hidden.

“Do you want me to go?” Fíli asks her quietly, glancing over his shoulder at her, grimacing like he knows he already knows what her answer will be.

She shakes her head but his strained expression doesn’t change.

“I know… I know I’m not…” He begins, wincing. She frowns, waiting for him to finish. “I’m probably the last person you want to be here right now -”

“That’s not true.” She cuts in because she must. She can’t let him carry on thinking that, not for another second. “I’m glad you’re here, Fíli.”

His eyebrows lift a fraction, almost as if in disbelief. “You sure about that?”

“I don’t want to be alone.” It’s not the whole truth. In that moment, anyone could be there with her – her father, Tauriel, Dara – and she suspects a part of her would wish that Fíli were there too. She swallows hard against the lump in her throat, deciding it’s important he knows that. Even if the thought of saying it out loud terrifies her. “But I’m glad you’re here,” she mumbles, desperately wishing she had a way with words like her father and sister, “because I… I’ve missed you.”

His expression changes, softening, as a slow smile working its way across his face. She can’t regret her words, not when he looks at her like that. She feels herself smile back, just faintly, while battling with her eyelids, which have grown heavy and determined to close.

Fíli stares at her for long moment before he nods once and looks away, his lip twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “Bombur made you soup. Why don’t you get dressed while I reheat it.”

It’s not a question, but she nods anyway. Fíli smiles faintly and ducks his head, pressing a kiss to her temple. His lips linger, warm and soft against her skin. Her eyes fall closed, a shaky breath escaping her lips. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze before he draws back, letting go. Her eyes are still closed when he leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him. She shivers, the droplets of water clinging to her skin beginning to feel more like icicles. She clutches the towel to her as she gets to her feet, swaying unsteadily. It seems to take her a long time to get from her bed to the wardrobe, but somehow, miraculously, she manages to pull on some old clothes and make it back to the bed without falling over.

She’s already fast asleep by the time Fíli returns with her soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading <3
> 
> as always, please let me know if you catch any mistakes or sentences that sound a little off, it's almost 4am here and so i really don't trust my proof-reading, i probably should wait til i've slept but i really wanted to get this posted today :)


	20. Chapter 20

_“If his wounds don’t kill him, then his fever will.”_

Somehow, Sigrid knows she’s dreaming. She knows she’s wandering into a memory. Gone are the wildflowers, the forget-me-nots - all around her the blackened earth is littered with tents and piles of smoking corpses. Something crunches underfoot, she doesn’t look to see what it is. The smell that hangs heavily in the air is something she’ll never forget. She shivers as she ducks into a tent, knowing exactly what she’ll find within. She wants to wake up. This isn’t a memory she wants to revisit.

 _“If he makes it through the night, maybe –_ maybe – _he’ll live.”_

At the time, she’d thought Fíli looked half-dead already. She hadn’t expected him to wake up, let alone recover from his wounds. She’d assisted the healers with many patients, most of which had succumb to their wounds. Pale from blood loss and shivering, Fíli’s entire body trembles as it fights weakly against his fever. He woul­dn’t have been the first she had seen die on that day. But in that moment, alone for the first time in days, Sigrid sits down heavily on the chair beside Fíli’s bed. She gives in to her tears, letting them run freely down her cheeks. She doesn’t lift a hand to wipe them away. She doesn’t expect him to wake up.

But then Fíli groans.

“Prince – Prince Fíli?” She whispers, hastily wiping her damp cheeks with her sleeve as she springs to her feet. She leans over him, trying to remember the list of things the healers had told her to check for. She touches the backs of her fingers against his forehead and hisses under her breath when she feels how hot he is. He groans again, quieter than before, and it’s the only warning she gets before his eyes flutter open.

Fever-bright eyes squint in confusion and flicker up to meet her gaze. She draws her hand back in surprise.

“Sorry.” She mumbles, her voice catching. “I was – I needed to check your -”

“Mother?” He croaks, his fever-bright eyes searching her face.

“I’m sorry, I’m not your mother.” She says as gently as she can, glancing from him to the flap of the tent. The healers will want to know he’s awake. And the others too – the other members of the Company will want to know.

“No,” he smiles faintly. “You’re much prettier.”

Sigrid’s lip twitches slightly, bemusedly. It’s her first smile in days.

“You’re crying.” Fíli whispers, a little crease forming between his brows as he looks up at her. “Why?”

“Do you know where you are?” She asks instead of responding, though she suspects she already knows the answer. Fíli shakes his head, frowning in confusion at the question, and she sighs. She doesn’t know how to go about telling someone they were – in all likelihood – fatally injured. “There was a battle. Do you remember that? You… you were injured.”

He blinks, looking even more confused than before. “Am I dead?”

Sigrid is startled awake by the sound of a door slamming before she – or at least, the dream version of herself – can respond.

Light is streaming in through the windows, the heavy curtains drawn back for the first time in days. Sigrid lifts her hand, shielding her eyes against the bright light. It takes her a long moment to sit up, her body no longer aching but tired and stiff. She rubs her eyes as she sits up against her pillows, still having to squint against the light as her eyes struggle to adjust.

The armchair beside her bed is empty, but she isn’t alone.

“Good, you’re awake.” Princess Dís says from where she’s stood at the foot of Sigrid’s bed.

“Oh, hello -” She begins, startled by the other woman’s presence. “Is everything alright?”

“You tell me.” Dís shrugs. “I’m not the one who is finally awake.”

Sigrid frowns, trying to get her bearings. “How long was I asleep for?”

“Almost two days.” Dís tells her, pursing her lips as she rounds the bed. “So it’s about time you eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.” She replies at once, the thought of food making her stomach turn. “Thank you but -”

Dís cocks her head to one side, looking Sigrid over with a shrewd expression. “If one of your patients said the same to you, I wonder, what would you do?”

Sigrid hesitates and her silence must be telling. She knows exactly what she would do if the situation was reversed and Dís must be aware of that. Dís smiles knowingly, her expression almost soft for once, and extends her hand. “Come. It’ll do you good to get out of bed. There’s some food waiting in the parlour.”

“Alright.” Sigrid says, hesitating before she accepts Dís’ hand.

She expects to stumble and for the room to start spinning around her as she stands up, but for the first time in days, she gets to her feet and nothing happens. The room remains still and her legs don’t threaten to give out from under her. Dís tows her by the hand into the sitting room and Sigrid follows without a word.

The curtains are all drawn back, filling the room with light. Sigrid looks out the windows and for the first time in weeks, she sees the sun. She can see Dale, barely visible under a thick blanket of snow, and the faint glimmer of the lake in the distance. There’s barely a cloud in the sky. It gives her hope that this winter might soon be over. She turns when she hears her name being called and grimaces when she follows Dís’ pointed finger.

There’s a large spread of food laid out on her desk in the sitting room. Sigrid isn’t particularly hungry but under Dís’ stern, watchful gaze, she helps herself to a bit of everything, making sure her plate is full before she retreats to one of the armchairs by the fire. Dís takes a seat on the armchair next to hers and sets a teapot and two mugs down on the little table sat between them.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Sigrid says in between bites of food. “Thank you.”

They sit in silence as Sigrid eats. Her mother-in-law isn’t as terrifying as she once was, but Sigrid is still wary of her. It makes small talk somewhat difficult. Dís pours herself a cup of tea and Sigrid sneaks a glance at her, searching for something to say.

“Thank you,” she says and gestures at her plate. “For the food.”

Dís hums and takes a sip of her tea. “Thank Bombur, he’s the one who made it.”

With that, they fall back into silence. While she eats, her thoughts turn to Bain. She’s feeling much better; if she’s lucky she might be able to finally leave her room and visit him. It’s only been a few days, but she misses him, as well as Tilda and her father. Whenever she’d been sick in the past, her Da had been there to look after her. But it had been simpler back then. He hadn’t been a king.

“I sent Fíli to bed, in case you’re wondering where he is. I haven’t done that since he was about this small.” Dís says and holds out her hand in front of her, demonstrating a much smaller Fíli’s height. “Although, he didn’t put up nearly as much of a fuss back then as he did today.”

“No? I always imagined him as a bit of a trouble maker back then.” Sigrid says as she piles some scrambled eggs onto a piece of toast.

“Oh, he was.” Dís smiles to herself. “But he knew when to listen.”

Sigrid pauses, glancing up from her food as she recalls the conversation she’d had with Fíli. He’d mentioned an argument between the two of them. Before she can ask, Dís’ smile falters and she mutters to herself, “A trait he now appears to lack.”

“Fíli mentioned an argument between you two. May I ask what it was about?” She asks carefully, setting down her knife and fork.

Dís glances across at her, her brows drawing together. “No, I think it would be best if my idiot son told you himself.”

“Oh.” Is all Sigrid can think to say. She looks away, returning to her food to distract herself from the awkward silence that has settled between them again. The faint crackling of the fire and the occasional scrape of her knife and fork against her plate are the only sounds to be heard in the small sitting room. She forces herself to eat as much as she can and returns her plate to the table once she has finished.

“I don’t know if Fíli has told you this, but I will be returning to the Blue Mountains in the spring.” Dís says as Sigrid sits back down, catching her by surprise. “I’d like it if you considered visiting me sometime. It’s a long journey, I know, but Ered Luin is a beautiful place. I think you would enjoy it.”

“You’re going back?” Sigrid can’t help but ask, staring at the Dwarf woman in surprise. “Why?”

“Erebor isn’t my home.” Dís replies, staring ahead at the fire burning low in the fireplace. There’s something wistful about her expression, something escaping the cold, inscrutable mask the Dwarf woman usually wears. “It hasn’t been for a very long time. It was always Thorin’s dream to return, not mine. I would have quite happily spent the rest of my days in Ered Luin, but Thorin – he filled Fíli and Kíli’s heads full of stories. And look where that got them… If I had my way, none of us would have returned to this wretched place.”

“Do you… Do you ever…” Sigrid begins, unsure how to broach a subject which had crossed her mind so many times in the past. “Do you ever wonder if Fíli or Kíli might catch the same sickness that drove your grandfather mad?”

Dís glances at her, smiling faintly. “Never.”

“Never?” Sigrid repeats dubiously, finding it difficult to believe. “How can you be so certain?”

“Some things you just know.” Dís answers after a long moment, her small smile fading into something far more wistful.

It’s a niggling worry she’s had in the back of her head for a long time. She can’t help but remember the treasury – mountains of gold and jewels, as far the eye could see. She had been so repulsed at the sight of it, and so certain she saw pride in Fíli and Kíli’s eyes. If it is not the gold that is cursed, like so many believe, then she has to wonder if it’s a sickness of the mind. A sickness that is passed down, that runs in the family. She wonders if that is why she has never seen Dís in gold or jewels, if gold-sickness is a fear Fíli’s mother also shares.

“Have you heard anything about my brother?” Sigrid asks, changing the subject.

“No, but I can find out, if you wish. About half a dozen people are being released today, perhaps he will be among them.”

Sigrid smiles to herself. “I hope so.”

“Things… may change, in the coming weeks.” Dís says as she sets down her cup of tea, folding her hands together in her lap. The Dwarf woman looks at her for a long moment, lips twisted ruefully, as she seems to search for the right words to say. “But I meant what I said, I’d like you to consider visiting Ered Luin.”

“I will think about it, only… it’s so far. What with my duties, not to mention Fíli’s, I -” She begins to say but Dís holds up her hand, interrupting her train of thought.

“My son doesn’t need to join you.”

“I don’t understand.” Sigrid frowns. “Why wouldn’t Fíli come with me?”

Dís’ face goes not give much away. If not for a few tiny changes in her expression, Sigrid might have believed she had not heard her.

“You misunderstand me,” Dís says at last. “I only meant that you are welcome at any time, whether my son is with you or not.”

Fíli’s mother doesn’t stay for much longer after that, leaving her with much to think about. Servants come, gather up the rest of the food and clear the plates, and Dís leaves, promising to send word about Bain. It leaves Sigrid alone and feeling strangely, suddenly lonely. The room is so quiet. She isn’t used to it. She glances over her shoulder, absently playing with a loose thread on the sleeve of her jumper, at the wooden door that separates her rooms from Fíli’s.

“No.” She says aloud, refusing to give in to the impulse. “Absolutely not.”

The thought doesn’t leave her alone though and throughout the day, she keeps finding herself glancing at that door, without really knowing why.

 

* * *

 

That night, Sigrid finds herself caught in the same memory.

“Am I dead?” Fíli asks her, his eyes bright and glassy with fever. By all accounts, he should be dead. She looks him over before she answers, struggling to find the right words to bring him some form of comfort. She would have blushed at the sight in front of her only a few weeks ago - naked, except for a towel draped across his lap to preserve his dignity, there is no hiding the extent of his injuries. His shoulder and torso are heavily bandaged, along with his hand, but the worse of it – the wound causing the most grief – is the gash across his thigh. The cut dragging across his leg has coloured darkly and is surrounded by angry red lines.

“No, you’re not dead.” She eventually says. _Not yet, at least._ “Uh, that is to say – you’re still alive, m’lord.”

It had been quite a shock to learn that some of the Dwarves who had clambered out of her toilet had been royalty. She probably wouldn’t have given Kíli a plate of walnuts as a pillow if she’d known. Probably.

“I should go fetch a healer -”

“No, wait -” He reaches for her with his bandaged hand, not seeming to notice it. He catches her wrist as she starts to turn away, his fingers warm and calloused against the inside of her wrist. “My brother – Kíli – where is he?”

She hesitates, glancing at the flap of the tent. “I should really go -”

“I need to know if -” The words get caught in his throat and he looks physically pained by them. “Please, my lady.”

“He’s alive.” _Barely._ “Injured badly, but alive.”

“Thank you.” Fíli whispers breathlessly, collapsing back against his pillow. “Thank you.”

“Sigrid?” Sigrid jolts awake at the sound of her name, so startled she nearly falls out of the chair she’d dozed off in.

She glances around her, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and is startled once more when her gaze lands on her father. Her heart lurches in her chest at the sight of him. It’s only been a handful of days since she saw him last but somehow it feels like it’s been much longer than that. Bard doesn’t look like he has slept in days. It takes her back, seeing her father look so weary. His hair is a dishevelled mess, as though he has been dragging his fingers through it, the way he always does when he’s stressed. Sigrid sits up, wincing at the stiffness of her neck, and that seems to break whatever spell has her father frozen on the spot in the doorway.

“I’ve been so worried.” Her father says as he crouches down in front of her, his hands reaching out to grasp her face. His hands are cold against her flushed cheeks. As his eyes frantically search her face, he looks so worried it nearly breaks her heart. This was why she hadn’t wanted him to know. She had wanted to save him from this. “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?”

She looks away, feeling a pang of guilt. “I didn’t want to worry you. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t want me to worry? Sigrid, no one would tell me where you were! I looked everywhere -” Her father sighs, his eyes falling closed for a moment. “I thought – I thought the Dwarves were afraid to tell me that you’d -” He stops, seeming unable to finish the thought. “Please tell me you’re alright, love. I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m alright, Da, I promise.” Sigrid tells him, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in her throat. “Fíli’s been taking good care of me.”

“Fíli has?” He looks surprised. “He told me he didn’t know where you were.”

“Because I asked him not to.” That’s something she’ll have to thank him for later, she hadn’t expected him to keep her secret.

Bard frowns but doesn’t seem to want to push the issue. Instead, he lifts one hand off of her cheek and presses the backs of his fingers against her forehead, the lines on his face deepening. “Are you sure you’re feeling well, love? You feel a little warm. Perhaps I should call for a healer –”

“I’m fine, Da.” She insists, reaching up to draw his hand away from her forehead. “How’s Bain?”

“He’s still in the sickbay,” Bard grimaces. “His fever keeps coming and going.”

“And Tilda? She hasn’t -”

He squeezes her hand, his eyes softening. “She’s right as rain. Worried sick about you and Bain, but otherwise she’s fine.”

“She wasn’t meant to find out.” Sigrid sighs, her lips twisting ruefully. The last thing she had wanted was for Tilda to find out she was sick, but there’s nothing she can do about it now. There must be something she can do to help Bain though. _Anything_ other than sitting in her rooms, doing nothing. “I need to go see him, the healers are so busy they might not -”

“Bain’s in good hands, darling.” Bard says, ignoring her indignation. “What you need to do is focus on getting better. Eat something and then get some rest.”

She wants to protest but she knows her father too well to even try fighting him on this.

“You should too, Da.” She murmurs, a weak smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You look tired.”

“Aye,” Bard smiles. “But you first, love.”

Her father stays with her for dinner and several hours after, leaving only after she promises to get some rest. Once the door closes behind him, she’s left alone once more. She remains there for a long time, sat in front of the fireplace, thinking. There are things she could be doing – clothes to be mended, books to be read, reports to go over – but her gaze, inevitably, shifts to the door behind her.

She’s crossed that threshold twice; finding an angry, heartbroken King on one occasion and her husband – a stranger to her then - to on the other. It’s somehow more daunting the third time around.

She stands, her hands flexing nervously. Before she can lose her nerve, she crosses the room. She hesitates before she reaches for the door handle, torn between two conflicting thoughts. In the end, Sigrid sighs and pushes the door handle, letting the door swing open. She doesn’t know what she expects, but when the door opens and she finds the sitting empty, she’s relieved.

The room isn’t much different to how it had been the last time she was there. There are weapons discarded everywhere, almost on every available surface, as well as bits and pieces of armour. There’s a dagger embedded in the door which hadn’t been there before and papers strewn across the desk tucked away in the corner. As she tiptoes across the room, she pauses when she reaches his desk, examining the papers curiously. Though she can’t read a word of what’s written, she recognises an official, royal document when she sees it. And there, down the bottom of one of the documents, is King Thorin's signature.

She frowns, wondering what the subject of the documents might be, but doesn’t allow herself to linger.

Sigrid knocks on one of the double doors leading into Fíli’s chambers, holding her breath. When no response comes, she carefully turns the handle and pushes open the door. The room is cold, a draft hits her the moment she steps inside. The curtains are drawn but the fire isn’t lit. Sigrid frowns, her gaze flitting to the still, unmoving form laying under a heap of blankets on the bed, before she tiptoes across the room.

She crouches down in front of the hearth and finds it stacked and ready to be burned. Strange, that it should be unlit. She lights the fire after finding a box of matches tucked away behind a rusty fire poker and shovel and slowly gets to her feet. As she stands there, warming her hands for a moment, she looks around the room properly for the first time. It’s more of a mess than she would have expected; there are clothes strewn across the floor, swords and axes too, more papers littering his bedside table, and what looks like a half-eaten plate of food on the ground.

Sigrid walks across the room, stepping around crumbled up balls of paper and a discarded axe, and sits down carefully on the edge of the bed.

Fíli shifts, mumbling under his breath, and rolls onto his side to face her. She pauses, scared she’s woken him, and waits until his breathing evens out again to relax. She leans back against the headboard slowly, careful not to disturb him, and glances down at him. Even asleep, he looks tense. It makes her wonder what he might be dreaming about. The deep circles under his eyes look like bruises, making the gash across his nose look even worse.

His eyelashes flutter and a soft, mumbled sound escapes his lips. He mumbles again, the muttered words in khuzdul. She only makes out one of the words. _Stop._

“Oh, Fíli.” She murmurs softly under her breath. Her hand seems to move on its own accord, instinctively reaching out and brushing away a loose strand of hair falling over his eyes. She gently carts her fingers through his hair, the way she used to with Bain when he was little and had bad dreams. Fíli mumbles again, turning his head more towards her, but he seems to relax a little, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. But then – of course – she ruins the moment by suddenly sneezing.

Fíli jerks awake with a sharp intake of breath, his eyes darting around the room frantically, and she quickly pulls her hand back, startled.

“Sorry – sorry – I didn’t mean to -”

Fíli settles back against his pillow with a sigh, eyes fluttering closed.

“Sigrid.” He mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. “What are you doing here?”

“I – I was – I wanted to –” She stumbles over her words as she searches for a reason for her being there. Except, she can’t think of one. She doesn’t know why she keeps seeking him out in the middle of the night or why the only dreamless night’s sleep she has are with him. She wishes she knew. Eventually she settles on, “My room is cold.”

“Oh,” he hums. “That’s not good.”

“No…” She replies absently, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Bad dream?”

“Yeah.” He sighs, his eyes still closed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks, her fingers itching to brush his face back away from his face again.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

She tilts her head to one side, watching his face. “Why not? It might make you feel better.”

When he doesn’t answer, she sighs. He grows so still and quiet, she suspects he’s fallen asleep again.

“How’s the nose?” She whispers, not really expecting an answer.

“The nose is good.” Fíli smiles faintly, sleepily. He chuckles quietly to himself, his eyes opening for a brief moment to flicker up to her face. She finds herself smiling too, unable to look away. “I thought I was supposed to be looking after you, not the other way ‘round.”

“Don’t worry,” she whispers back. “I’m sure we can take it in turns.”

Except, Fíli’s smile falters. “You think so?”

“Of course.” She says with absolute certainty. She’d thought he would have known that. “That’s how it works, isn’t it?”

“How what works?” He mumbles, his eyes slipping closed.

“This whole marriage business.” Even after all this time, it still sounds strange to say. It’s even stranger trying to wrap her head around the whole thing. He’s her husband and she’s his wife and yet – _and yet –_ “Don’t you think?”

There’s something going on, something she doesn’t know about, and it seems to have begun the day of the Yule party. Thinking back, she’d woken up that morning alone, Fíli had left without waking her to say goodbye, and he hadn’t been himself all that night. She doesn’t let herself think about what happened – or what could have happened – under the mistletoe that night.

“Fíli, what’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?” She whispers, giving his shoulder a shake. With a grunt of protest, his eyes open slowly and he turns his head, blinking owlishly at her. She feels a pang of guilt, realising that she’s woken him up not once, but twice. After everything he has done for her over the past few days, he deserves to get some sleep without her bothering him. She reaches out, brushing his hair off of his face with a regretful sigh. “I’m sorry. Go back to sleep. We can talk about this later.”

Fíli catches her hand before she can move away, his fingers curling loosely around her wrist.

“Wait.” He murmurs and says something else, a whispered word in khuzdul she doesn’t recognise. “Don’t go.” His thumb rubs light, soothing circles over her pulse, sending shivers right through her body. “I shouldn’t be sleeping, not when you’re…”

She hesitates, her gaze falls to their hands. More so, her gaze is drawn to the barely-there scar on the back of his hand. She squeezes his hand, lightly rubbing her thumb over the circular scar. His hands are so different to hers. His are rough and scarred and calloused yet gentle, unfailingly gentle when holding hers. Sneaking a glance at him, she feels she might understand the faith Dís has in her sons after all. She doubts and doubts and doubts and every time, Fíli proves her wrong. She lifts their joined hands and presses her lips against the faint scar on the back of his hand, hoping he somehow understands her unspoken apology.

She gets up from the bed only to lift the covers and slide under them, never once letting go of Fíli’s hand. Fíli hums, a quiet, contented sound, and closes his eyes with a small, sleepy smile playing on his lips. It isn’t long before his breathing grows slow and deep beside her. It’s the only sound in the room other than the occasional crackle of the fire.

Sigrid shifts onto her side, letting her gaze roam freely over his face. He looks so peaceful, not at all like the tense, distant person he has been lately. Her lips quirk up as she suddenly recalls how she’d once thought that he was handsome, at least, _for a Dwarf_. Like this, though – he’s beautiful. In the soft glow of the firelight, his eyelashes cast long shadows across his cheeks. With a fond smile, she notices that his moustache is askew, free from its usual braids – something she’s never seen before.

Her hand moves, sliding across the bed sheets until it meets the soft material of his loose nightshirt. Her fingers curl around it, gripping it as though to anchor him to her. She settles against her pillow, closing her eyes. The world is quiet here. She doesn’t worry about the state of Dale and her people, or the things people whisper about her, or whatever this is between them is and what it is she truly feels.

She wants peace, she realises at long last, and she finds that here with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo i feel bad that this is a bit of a filler chapter after such a long wait that i'm going to post the next chapter in the next couple of days. thank you all for your patience and for all your comments and kudos and i'll try my best to get on a more regular posting schedule <3


	21. Chapter 21

In the weeks that follow, everything seems to go by in a blur.

Bain recovers, patients are permitted to leave the sickbay slowly but surely, funerals are held, and the snow gradually melts. Four people died of the sickness and six others passed away before the move into the mountain due to the cold. It’s not something her people had expected, to lose so many, in such a short period of time. They’ll have to do better next year to ensure it never happens again. Sigrid has a list of preparations and preventative measures that seems to be ever-growing. But she’ll see it done, no matter how hard she has to push her father’s more old-fashioned advisors to lower themselves to listen to a _mere woman,_ and however long it takes. For once in life her, all her forebodings and worrying and fussing might actually do some good.

Tilda doesn’t let either of them out of her sight for almost a week after Bain is released from the sickbay and Sigrid is finally allowed to leave her rooms. It makes reading reports difficult when her little sister is hovering over her shoulder, asking inane questions and constantly distracting her. It’s sweet, if not a little exhausting.

It feels like coming home when they all eventually are able to return to Dale.

It isn’t unlike their first journey to the city; her people walk in a long line with her father at the head, but their journey isn’t to a desolate ruin, they aren’t weary pilgrims seeking shelter. They’re coming home.

She never thought she’d be so glad to see her ancestor’s house with the painted blue shutters and the red door. The house is draughty, the furniture all covered in a thin layer of dust and in dire need of a proper cleaning, but she scarcely notices it. The others seem happy too; the markets reopen and Tilda continues helping Hilda, and Bain resumes his training, coming home with more bumps and bruises than she would have liked. The first signs of life are peaking through the thin dusting of snow in her garden; little shoots of grass poking through the layer of white, vines growing up the stone walls, and tiny bulbs dotting along the withered flower bed. Sigrid still has the notes Bilbo left her and a little packet of seeds she plans on planting once the warmer weather returns.

There’s only one thing Dale is lacking. She just doesn’t know what it is yet.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?” Sigrid’s head snaps up at that, blinking in surprise when Tilda’s face comes into focus. Tilda’s lips quirk up in a teasing grin. “Thought so.”

“I’m sorry, I… got distracted. What were you saying?”

Tilda cocks her head to one side, looking her up and down. “You’ve been getting distracted an awful lot lately. Is there something on your mind?” Her teasing grin widens as a thought suddenly occurs to her, “Or maybe _someone?_ ”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sigrid mutters, flustered as she tries to find her place in her book. “I was just thinking. This book is very thought provoking.”

“I doubt it,” Tilda snorts. “You’ve been staring out of the window for the past ten minutes.”

“Oh.” She frowns, glancing at the window across from her. The large bay windows face the north with a clear, unobstructed view of the mountain. She once used to look on that sight with utter revulsion. It was where the monster lived, they were taught as children, and it was a place they should never go. The lonely mountain means something different to her now, something much, much different.

“Anyway, Dara told me to give this to you.” Tilda says and drops a folded piece of paper into her lap.

Sigrid tears her gaze away from the mountain, looking at her sister in surprise. “Dara’s here?”

“She’s in the kitchen. And Gared was here too. He stopped by a couple of hours ago. I told him you weren’t here, like you asked.” Tilda tells her, her expression settling into a scowl. “I don’t understand what’s going on. What did he do that was so terrible? And why won’t you tell me what he did?”

“It’s… complicated.” She hedges, hoping Tilda might let the subject go.

“He’s my friend too, don’t I deserve to know?”

“I will tell you, I promise. Just… not right now.” Sigrid eventually sighs, resigned. Tilda’s right, of course. She does deserve to know the truth. But she deserves to know the _whole_ truth – something that not even Sigrid knows yet. Eventually she will have to talk to Gared about the letter and the child and find out the truth, but not yet. She isn’t ready to hear it just yet. “I’m sorry, I know that isn’t what you want to hear but -”

“You have your reasons, I know.” Tilda says not unkindly, her lips quirking up in a small smile. “So, what is that? Dara said it was important.”

Sigrid glances down at the folded piece of paper in her lap, relieved at the change of subject. She has no desire to argue with her sister today. Tilda has always been fond of Gared, looked up to him, and thought of him as family. Sigrid worries that might change once her sister learns the truth. She unfolds the paper and frowns at the long list of names running down the page. It takes her a moment to realise what it is.

“It’s a list of people who were sick.” She tells her. “I asked Dara to get all the names so I could check up on them…”

She doesn’t tell Tilda about the four names that are crossed out.

As she runs down the list, she pauses at one name in particular. Isolde. And beside her name, crossed out with a single line, is her husband, Willem Mormont. After the way his wife had described him in the Great Hall and all the horrible things Hilda had later told her, she can’t say she is particularly saddened to see the man’s name on the list, but her heart goes out to Isolde.

Setting her book aside, Sigrid tucks the piece of paper into her pocket and gets to her feet. She runs her fingers through her hair, deep in thought as she walks across the living room and into the kitchen with Tilda following close behind.

“Thanks for bringing the list.” She says when she spots Dara at the kitchen counter, cutting up a loaf of bread. “How did you get it so quickly?”

“Hello to you too.” Dara shoots over her shoulder. “And well, a well-meaning threat can always come in handy if used correctly. Keep that in mind when those stuffy councilmen try to give you trouble.”

“I’ll do my best,” Sigrid laughs.

“Tilda and I are going on a picnic with Hilda and her nieces. Would you like to join us?” Dara asks, though her expression tells her she already knows what Sigrid’s answer will be. Over the past few weeks, the two have grown close. It’s comforting knowing that in the time Sigrid was unwell, Tilda had someone looking after her, and still continues to. When Sigrid shakes her head, Dara chuckles. “Mm, thought not. Knew I shouldn’t have given you that list right away.”

“I’m sorry.” She says, her resolve wavering when she catches sight of the disappointed look Tilda shoots her. “Next time I’ll definitely come. I’ll even make pie.”

That perks Tilda up. “Blueberry pie?”

“Anything you want.” Sigrid smiles and glances at the clock. “Well, I’d better be going. I’ve got a long list of people to get through.”

“Good luck!” Dara calls after her as she leaves the kitchen. She waves over her shoulder as she walks down the corridor, pulling on her coat and boots before she leaves the house.

It takes hours to visit every single person but one on her list. She leaves Isolde for last. Almost everyone she visits gives her the same answer when she runs through a list of symptoms: that there have been no ongoing problems. Looking at them, it’s as if they were never sick. It seems too good to be true after watching four people be buried. Four people dying had been a low estimation considering just how many people came down with the illness. It’s only the very old and the very young that the sickness seems to have lingering effects on. But it seems, at least for now, that the worst is over. She leaves the last house hopeful.

Isolde’s house is the lower quarter of Dale, making it quite a long walk. But the day is pleasant enough, save for a few grey clouds that promise rain later on, so she doesn’t mind so much. It isn’t often she visits the lower quarter. It’s quieter, less populated, and where the least amount of repairs to the city have been made. Many of the houses are still derelict, crumbled ruins. Walking through this part of the city takes her back, reminds her of the way Dale once was.

Isolde’s house is at the end of a long street with a painted, wooden rocking horse sat on the front step. The street is quiet, quiet enough that she can hear voices coming from inside the house.   

As she stands outside Isolde’s house, hand poised to knock, she’s suddenly overcome with nerves. She is afraid of what she will find within and what will be expected of her. She doesn’t know who she is or who she is supposed to be. Is she the King of Dale’s daughter or is she just… Sigrid? Is she there out of concern as a healer or as a friend? She doesn’t know whether to be the Lady of Dale – the person her people to come to expect – or simply herself. Closing her eyes, Sigrid curls her fingers into a fist and forces herself to knock on the door.

Several minutes pass before the door swings open, revealing a young child, no older than seven or eight.

“Oh. Hello.” Sigrid says, startled. She crouches down to be at the boy’s level and holds out her hand. “My name’s Sigrid. What’s yours?”

The boy blinks at her hand before he reaches out and tentatively shakes it. “Fergus.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Fergus. I’m looking for a lady called Isolde Mormont. Is she your mother?”

The young boy giggles, showing off his missing front teeth, and shakes his head. Sigrid straightens, sure this is the address her father had given her, and is about to ask the boy where his parents are when she spots Isolde over his shoulder, hurrying towards the door.

“Fergus, there you are! What did I tell you about answering the door! Goodness - m’lady, forgive me, I didn’t hear you – didn’t expect – I – please, please, come in -” Isolde exclaims in a breathless, frantic rush, gesturing for Sigrid to come inside. The young woman isn’t exactly the picture of a grieving widow; her cheeks are flushed, there’s a smudge of flour running across her shoulder, and the faded apron tied around her waist has two small handprints made out of what looks like strawberry jam. Sigrid smiles bemusedly and enters the house, closing the door behind her.

Fergus, after glancing between the two of them, shrugs and runs off down the corridor. Isolde watches him go with an exasperated, but fond look on her face. It’s only once he’s gone, slamming a door behind him, that she seems to come back to herself and looks a little paler when she turns back to Sigrid.

“Forgive me, my lady, I’ve been so rude. How can I help you? What would like something to drink? I just put the kettle on, it should be…” Isolde trails off, glancing over her shoulder. There’s a noise above them, giggling, followed by the sound of small feet running across creaky floorboards. The sound makes her smile.

“Tea would be lovely.” Sigrid says, wincing at the hurried, anxious way Isolde nods and turns, as if she’d been given an order. She follows the other woman down the long, narrow corridor into a small kitchen. There’s a small table pushed into the corner of the kitchen with three mismatching chairs. Isolde pulls one of the chairs out for her, a rickety looking one with red and white paint splashed down the back, and gestures for her to sit. Once Isolde turns away to take a whistling pot off of the stove, Sigrid sits down gingerly, the chair creaking ominously beneath her, and glances around the room. The window panes are boarded up, the glass yet to be replaced. One of the cupboard doors is broken, hanging precariously off of its hinge. There’s a certain charm to it though, in the random splashes of paint and the plants sat in little pots on the windowsill.

“I’m sorry to drop by unannounced.” Sigrid begins, wringing her hands. It’s difficult, finding the words to say when she is unsure. As much as she wants to be there as Isolde’s friend, she fears she can’t. She fears the other woman will only ever see her as the Lady of Dale. “I wanted to see how you are. I was told that you were ill and that your husband…”

Isolde’s gaze falls to the floor. “Oh, you are too kind, my lady. Yes, Willem – he – he fell ill. He wouldn’t allow the Dwarven healers to see him… The sickness took him very quickly.”

Sigrid’s lips twist regretfully. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” Isolde’s gaze lifts and a faint smile touches her lips. “It was only after that I… that I was able to see a healer for myself.”

“And you’re feeling better now, I hope? No ongoing problems? You haven’t experienced any light-headedness or nausea?” She asks and the other woman shakes her head. “Any difficulty breathing or coughing? Fever?”

Isolde’s small smile grows and she sets a cup of tea down in front of her. “No, m’lady. Nothing like that. It’s as if I was never sick.”

“I’m glad.” Sigrid says and grasps the other woman’s shoulder. Isolde’s eyes flicker to her hand, a briefly startled look crossing her face. “I’ve been meaning to come by for some time now, I don’t think I thanked you for what you did. It took a lot of courage to come forward about the Merchant’s Guild. I can’t imagine that was easy for you, so thank you.”

“Goodness.” Isolde ducks her head, her cheeks reddening. “It was nothing, my lady. Just did what I thought was right.”

“Have you heard of any more trouble from them?” Sigrid asks and withdraws her hand.

“I – I can’t say I have, but I don’t work in the market anymore. It was my husband’s stall, my lady.” Isolde glances away from her, clutching her mug with both hands. “I’m a… a washerwoman now. Just for the past few weeks. I’ve never heard anything unkind said about Dwarves there, my lady. But they don’t talk to me much.”

“Well, that’s their loss.” Sigrid smiles.

Isolde flushes, spluttering. “No, not – not really, I -”

More laughter echoes down the stairs. A sweet, infectious sound. She thinks she hears Fergus’ name being called before a door slams and footsteps patter across the floor above their heads.

Sigrid leans forward, elbows pressing into the table. “That boy, Fergus, is he your son?”

“Fergus? Oh, goodness no. I don’t have any children, my lady.” Isolde tells her, a wistful look crossing her features. “My husband was… unable to, you see.” There is a sad note in her voice. Sigrid fears she has touched upon an old hurt. “I look after some of the neighbours’ children while they’re at work. I’m afraid Fergus’ parents were lost to the dragon fire.”

“There are so many orphans…” Sigrid sighs, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. There had been talk, months and months ago, of setting up an orphanage. Her father had been in favour of it, but their people had rallied against the idea, insisting that amongst themselves, they could take care of their own. That had been the last Sigrid had heard about the matter. Those without living relatives went to whoever was willing to take them. A part of her can understand why, the orphanage in Lake-town had been a gloomy, miserable place. “How many children do you look after?”

Isolde hums in thought. “Usually about ten or eleven. Sometimes Elain’s children go to work with her.”

“Ten?” Sigrid repeats, taken aback. “And what do you do with them?”

“I read to them sometimes – most of them can’t read so they like listening to stories – but mostly they just play. I’ve been trying to teach some of the older children how to read and some basic numeracy but they don’t listen to me. They don’t see the point.” Isolde tells her with a resigned sigh. “If they had a proper teacher, then maybe they might listen… But I don’t know, I shouldn’t interfere -”

“No,” Sigrid cuts in, “you should. They deserve an education.”

The other woman stares at her, eyes wide with what looks like disbelief. “Truly?”

“Yes.” Sigrid laughs. “Of course.”

“You have no idea how glad I am to hear that, my lady.” Isolde clasps her hand with a watery smile, her eyes bright with tears. “If – if you spoke to the children’s parents, then they’d have to listen. Would – would you consider doing that, my lady? Please. I would be in your debt -”

“It’s I who am in your debt.” Sigrid turns her hand over, grasping Isolde’s. “I will speak to them, I promise.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Isolde murmurs, wiping her damp cheeks with her sleeve. “Would you like to meet the children?”

Sigrid sets her tea down on the table and smiles. “I’d love to.”

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Sigrid walks home covered in paint, her cheeks aching from smiling, and with something new to add to her ever-expanding list –

A school.

There’s a reason it hasn’t been done yet. There is the challenge of finding the right place, whether it be an existing building or a new one, and then finding teachers, and then convincing parents that it’s worthwhile. Most have their children running errands, working with them on the farms or on construction, or staying at home looking after the younger ones. It’ll be hard work convincing them that letting their children go to school is worth it. But Sigrid isn’t afraid of a challenge.

The school in Lake-town hadn’t been anything special. Her father had taught her to read and write long before she ever stepped foot in that building. There had only been two teachers – two terrifying old men who would smack their hands with rulers if they misbehaved – with a classroom of over sixty students between them. It hadn’t been much, but it had been enough. And there’s no reason Dale shouldn’t have that as well. But, as with all things, Sigrid hopes that they can do better than how things had been run in Lake-town.

But even with this new-found purpose, there’s still a little voice in the back of her head telling her she’s looking for something else.

She just doesn’t know what it is yet.

She passes through the marketplace on her way home, with the afternoon drawing to a close, the merchants are packing up their stalls, done for the day. The back of her neck itches, feeling someone’s gaze on her. She glances over her shoulder and isn’t surprised to see Evette watching her, her eyes hard and her lips set in a tight line. Sigrid smiles at her, amused, and continues on her way. There’s a new stall where Isolde and her husband’s had been, selling pottery instead of fishing equipment. Sigrid’s smile widens when she realises that the merchant is a Dwarf. 

“Hello.” She says, pausing in front of the stall. She stops mostly because she knows it’ll annoy Evette and any of the others who were in the now dissolved Merchant’s Guild. She can feel Evette’s gaze on her, glaring daggers at her from across the square. She glances at the merchant’s wares, admiring the fine detail. One vase in particular stands out to her, tall and thin, with dark blue vines painted around it. “These are lovely. Do you make them yourself?”

“Yes, Princess.” The Dwarf replies gruffly, his demeanour, along with the thick tattoos circling his arms, similar to Dwalin.

“How much is this one?” She asks, pointing to the vase.

The Dwarf clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “For you, Princess, that’s free of charge.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly -”

“I insist.” He says and holds the vase out to her. “You are my Prince’s wife, I cannot take your money.” When Sigrid shakes her head, about to protest for a second time, the Dwarf leans forward, glancing around them before he speaks. “And I heard about what you did - how you stood up to that blasted Merchant’s Guild. You made it possible for me to sell my wares. One vase is little compensation for that.”

A slow smile tugs at her lips when the Dwarf all but pushes the vase into her arms. “What’s your name?”

“Hywel.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Hywel.” Sigrid shifts the vase, holding it against her chest with one arm so she can hold out her hand. “And thank you for the vase.”

The Dwarf’s lips twitch under his thick, dark beard and he gives her hand a brief, but firm shake. Like most Dwarves, he doesn’t seem to put much stock in small talk. He bows his head and returns to packing up his stall. Sigrid departs with a smile, feeling Evette’s eyes on her all the way out of the square. As she walks along the cobblestone streets, vase tucked securely under her arm, the grey clouds finally live up to their promise of rain. The light drizzle doesn’t bother her much, doesn’t have her running indoors like some others. She pulls up the hood of her coat and goes on her way, going over her list in her head. She still has a few more people she wants to check up on, dinner needed preparing, the laundry needed to be sent to the washhouse…

The lanterns hung up outside the Great Hall are in the process of being lit. They’re the only reason that she looks up when she rounds the corner and catches sight of Fíli walking across the courtyard, away from her. She’s distracted, too busy thinking about what to do for dinner, she wouldn’t have seen him at all if not for the sudden burst of light.

She calls out his name and feels a smile pull at the corners of her lips when he turns around. She’s too far away to make out his expression but he waves. She waves back and widens her stride, practically skipping up to him, and meets him halfway across the courtyard.

She flushes at the once over he gives her, his expression a touch amused. He’s in better shape than her, lacking the half-drowned cat look she’s sporting. All that fur and armour he wears keeps him protected from the rain but his hair is damp, curling at the ends.

“This is a surprise.” _A happy surprise,_ she almost adds. “What are you doing here? Y’know, aside from getting rained on.”

Fíli’s lip twitches into a weak grin. “Maybe we should go inside. Talk somewhere a little more dry.”

“That’s probably for the best,” she agrees.

They don’t link arms or hold hands the way they usually do but Sigrid unconsciously inches closer, until her arm brushes against his. She glances across at him as they make their way across the courtyard to her house, a small smile touching her lips. There’s so much she has to tell him. She wants to ask him what he thinks about the idea of a school and most of all, she wants tell him about her run-in with Hywel in the market. She wouldn’t have had the courage to confront Evette all those weeks ago if not for him. And in that moment, she realises that she wants to talk to him about it more than with her father, or Dara, or even Bain and Tilda.

“It’s so good to see you.” She says, surprised by just how much she means it. “How have you been? It feels like an age since I’ve seen you.”

“Not quite an age, but close enough. I’ve been busy. Uncle isn’t letting me skip council meetings anymore. And they take up a lot of time. Too damn much, if you ask me. ” Fíli grumbles, pulling a face. She presses her lips to stop herself from smiling and nods, feigning sympathy. He glances up at her then, his expression growing serious. “And you? Are you well?”

“I am.” Something in her chest tightens when he looks at her, his eyes softening.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles. Her teeth start to chatter as a shiver runs through her. The soft look in Fíli’s eyes soon turns into something else, his brows drawing together in concern. A moment later, he shrugs off his cloak and, ignoring her weak protests, drapes it across her shoulders. The fur-lining is warm and smells like him. She’s tempted to bury her nose in it, finding the smell comforting. The cloak is soft but heavy, falling to the backs of her knees. It must look comically short on her, but she can’t bring herself to care. She hugs her elbows, careful not to drop her new vase, and smiles gratefully.

“I ran into your – uh, friend, Gared earlier.” Fíli says before she can thank him for the cloak, catching her off-guard. She glances across at him in surprise and blinks when he pulls something out of his trouser pocket. “He asked me to give you this.” She takes an envelope from him and frowns at it. It has her name written on the front in Gared’s familiar, messy scrawl. Drops of rain splash down on it, making the dark ink bleed. She tucks it into her pocket, not prepared to let Gared ruin her good mood, and Fíli’s brows quirk up. “You’re not going to open it?”

“No, I have better things to be doing.” She says and sneaks a glance at him. “What did he say to you?”

“He seemed quite insistent.” He tells her, staring ahead. “Asked me if I’d talk to you for him. Said it was a matter of life and death.”

She almost laughs. “He what?”

“I didn’t make him any promises.” Fíli smirks to himself.

“Good.” She mutters. She glances up then, swallowing when she realises they’ve reached her house. It’s the first time he’s been back since the Yule party. If she closes her eyes, she can picture it – the flakes of snow melting in his hair, their breath hanging in the air between them, and the look on his face when he’d pulled away from her. There’s no mistletoe in sight but her cheeks with burn with embarrassment.

“So,” she says as she walks into the house, clearing her throat. “What brings you to Dale?”

Fíli glances away from her, looking at the stairs behind her. “I, uh – had a meeting with your father.”

“You did?” She doesn’t know which is stranger, that Fíli had a meeting with her father and she didn’t know about it, or that she wasn’t asked to attend. She feels her smile falter, wondering if she had somehow forgotten about it. That was possible. She has been so busy lately, it would make sense… “Was I supposed to be there? Did I forget?”

“You didn’t forget. But that’s – uh – why I’m here. I was hoping we could talk, just the two of us.”

“That sounds rather ominous.” She says with a small, teasing smile. “Should I be worried?”

“No, no… it’s good news.” Fíli says but his expression tells a different story. Sigrid’s smile dims, a feeling of dread falling over her. The last time she had seen someone look so grave, she’d been at a funeral. “Are Bain and Tilda here?”

“I don’t think so.” The house is quiet, the coat hooks by the door empty. A sign that points to them being alone. “Tilda was out with Dara when I last checked.”

“Good… that’s, uh, good.” He says, awkwardly rubbing the nape of his neck.

Sigrid shifts her weight from one foot to another, grimacing at the small puddle forming under her feet. “Is it alright if I go change into something dry first?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll – I’ll be in the living room.”

She glances back at him as she starts towards the stairs and finds it difficult to convince herself that there’s nothing going wrong when he tips his head back and sighs, thinking she’s not looking. It’s what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? To find out what has been bothering him ever since the Yule Party. _Be careful what you wish for,_ a little voice in the back of her head whispers. The stairs creak and groan under her feet and the grandfather cloak chimes, the sound echoing throughout the house.

Sigrid pulls off his cloak once she walks into her room, setting it down on her bed. She sets the vase down on the mantle above the hearth, telling herself that she will find a proper home for it later. Her hands tremble – either with the cold or something else – as she turns away from the fireplace, shedding her coat and then unfastening her dress. She changes into a green, wool dress with long sleeves and pulls an old cardigan over the top. Her teeth finally stop chattering once she’s in dry clothes again, the feeling returning to her numb fingers.

She thinks she can hear him moving downstairs, those heavy boots of his making the floorboards creak. It’s what has her walking out of her room with a small, quiet sigh. As she walks down the stairs, she lets her damp hair out of its messy plait, letting it fall loose. She runs her fingers through her hair as she peers around the corner, wincing at the sight of him stood in the living room.

It doesn’t instil any hope in her that she’s about to hear good news, seeing him stood there with his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back, looking unsure and uncomfortable. The gash across the bridge of his nose has long since healed but those shadows under his eyes are still there, looking more like bruises. She’s never seen him like this before. He’s in pain and she doesn’t know how to help him.

“Fíli.” She calls out softly, forcing a smile onto her lips. “Would you like something to drink? Some tea or -”

“I’m fine. Thank you though.” His smile is weak, brittle. “Maybe you should sit.”

It isn’t a demand but her body acts as if it is, mechanically walking over and sitting down on the couch. After a beat, he sits down beside her, awkwardly rubbing the nape of his neck again. They’re sitting about as far away from each other as they can. She has become so comfortable around him, without realising, that it seems strange to be sat without their arms pressed together and their hands not joined. When the silence between them stretches on, she has a sudden urge to put her hand over his, but she stops herself.

“There’s something we need to talk about. Something important.” He begins, frowning. “But I’m not sure, I don’t really know where to begin…” He starts to say and then shakes his head, muttering under his breath. With a sigh, he reaches into the breast pocket of his coat and pulls out a roll of paper. “It might be easier if you just read this.”

She takes the roll of paper from him, mystified, and slowly unrolls it.

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting but is surprised to see that it’s a royal document, just like the ones she’d seen scattered around his room, with a great deal of writing in fine print that makes her squint. _Sigrid,_ one section begins, _Princess of Dale, Princess of Erebor, daughter of Bard, King of Dale, of the line of Girion…_ She almost laughs at that, seeing her name written so formally. Once upon a time the only title she had to her name was the lowly Bargeman’s daughter.

She skims the thick chunk of text, growing more and more confused the more she reads. Full of clauses and legal jargon, she doesn’t really know what it is she’s reading until –

 _Fíli of the line of Durin,_ another section begins, followed by a large chunk of khuzdul, _Prince of Erebor, Prince of Dale, son of Dís, heir of Thorin II, King under the Mountain, hereby requests the right of annulment…_

She looks up from the document slowly, all of a sudden feeling very cold. It’s like someone has tipped a bucket of icy water over her head. She drags in a shaky breath, her fingers numb as she rolls the document back up. The document goes on and on, but she doesn’t need to keep reading to understand what it is. It’s a contract. Just like the one they’d signed together before their engagement had been formally announced. What she doesn’t understand is _why._

“Why?” Is all she can manage to say, her voice cracking.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for some time now,” Fíli eventually says. He doesn’t look at her; his gaze remained fixed on the hearth, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. All she can do is stare at him as she tries to make sense of what she’s hearing. “I think it’ll be for the best.”

She stares at him for a long time, lost for words. “How… how long have you…”

“I first approached Balin and my Uncle about this on the day of your Yule party.” He replies woodenly, still refusing to look at her. The Yule party. Of course. That had been the day which everything seemed to go wrong.

“All this time?” She murmurs, unnerved by the strange hollow feeling in her chest. “And you never… you never said…”

“I didn’t want to tell you, only to find out that it wouldn’t be possible.” His jaw clenches and he looks at her at long last, his eyes filled with some unreadable emotion. She almost wishes he hadn’t look at her at all, it makes it all seem so real, and not some strange joke she doesn’t understand. “I’m sorry, Sigrid, I did want to tell you sooner but I… I had to be sure first, so I wasn’t dangling false hope in front of you. I couldn’t do that, not to you.”

“But why?” She asks again. “I don’t understand.”

Fíli’s smile is bittersweet. “We both deserve to be happy, don’t we?”

She blinks, her eyes prickling with tears.

“I thought we were.” She mumbles more to herself than anyone else, her gaze falling to the thin, gold band on her left hand. She’s grown so used to it, it’ll be strange to be without it. She remembers the fear and disgust she once felt when she looked at it; it had been a piece of cursed gold tying her to a stranger, etched on the inside with words she didn’t understand. She wonders if she’ll have to give it back, if it’ll be melted down into something else. _Or maybe he’ll give it to someone else,_ a little voice in the back of her head whispers.

“Is… is there someone?” Asking if there is someone _else_ implies that they are – or ever were - something. It makes it sound as if their marriage was anything other than an arrangement, a convenient match to appease both their people. She doesn’t look at him – _can’t_ look at him. She stares resolutely ahead, gaze fixed on a crack in the ceiling.

He doesn’t answer and that, in itself, is an answer.

She remembers their whispered conversation, lying side by side in the dark. _The way Dwarves love,_ he’d told her with such sadness in his voice, _once found, it never goes away. There can never be another._ Was it longing, she now wonders, for a love he feared he could never be with? Or a love he has lost? She releases a shaky breath, feeling sick to her stomach.

“Sigrid?”

There’s something about the way he says her name. He says it like no one else outside her family does. She wonders how she has never noticed until now. When he says it, she doesn’t feel like he’s talking to the Lady of Dale, the strange new person she has become, or the poor bargeman’s daughter she once was. He says her name and it feels like he’s talking to her. Just plain Sigrid, no one else. He says her name again and her head jerks up, realising he’s expecting her to say something.

There are so many things she wants to say, so many questions she ought to ask, but all she can manage to say is –

“Okay.”

He blinks. “Okay?”

“If this is what you want, and if you think this is for the best, then I’ll do it.” She finds herself saying, the calmness of her tone not at all matching the turmoil inside of her. _For you,_ she thinks despairingly, _I’ll do it for you._ She glances over and something clutches in her chest at the way Fíli’s shoulders relax, looking as if a huge weight has just been lifted. What a terrible thing their marriage must be, if he’s so relieved to be rid of it. How stupid of her, for letting it get so confused.

She’s not sure what’s worse, the idea of him loving someone else or him having loved someone and lost them. But in either situation, there was never a possibility of him ever loving her. And there’s nothing worse than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter continues where this one left off, it was getting crazy long so i needed to cut it into two chapters. the next chapter (hopefully) should be up sometime next week.
> 
> thanks for reading and all the love and support, you guys are the best. it really makes my day hearing back from you lovely people <3


	22. Chapter 22

They sit in silence for what feels like a very long time.

For weeks, Sigrid has felt like something was missing. She has lain awake at night, cold, even with Tilda sleeping beside her, and kept finding herself growing distracted during the day. She hadn’t know the reason for it at first, but when she figures it out, strangely, she isn’t surprised. She looks at him and she knows. It’s him. She had seen him across the courtyard in the rain and some part of her seemed to say, _there you are, I’ve been looking for you_ …

The powers that be must have a strange sense of humour, if all the pieces of that particular puzzle are coming together _now._

There will be so many questions. People will speculate. Relations between her people and his will likely return to what it had been before they were married, looking on them with anger and distrust. All they’ve worked for will be lost. She wouldn’t be surprised to see a resurgence of the Merchant’s Guild and its like. The ravens will likely return as well, carrying messages from suitors. She’ll be expected to remarry, in time. She won’t be so lucky again as to marry someone so close to home.

With a heavy sigh, she drags her fingers through her hair. She can’t think about that now. Sigrid slowly stands and smoothed the creases from her dress, unable to sit in silence any longer.

“I need to start making dinner.” She says, chewing on the inside of her cheek. _Leave,_ she thinks desperately as she looks back at him. She tucks the roll of paper into her dress pocket, not wanting to look at it anymore, and crosses her arms over her chest. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t react in any way to her words for what feels like a long time. He stares down at his boots like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. “You’re welcome to stay.”

“No… no, I should get going.” Fíli mumbles at last, rising to his feet. “I said I’d have dinner with Kíli and Tauriel.”

She turns on her heel, unable to think about the happy couple, and shows him to the door. She’s not being particularly polite but she can’t bring herself to care. She opens the door and Fíli steps out onto the front step, shoving his hands into his pockets. The sky is slate grey, but the rain has stopped for now at least. Dara and Tilda will be back soon, their picnic undoubtedly cut short. They’ll want to talk, and that’s the last thing she wants.

She wants him to leave, _needs_ him to leave, but she can’t let him go just yet.

“Fíli -” She starts to say, hesitating. “Is this… is this really what you want?”

For a second, he falters. His foot, mid-step, catches the door mat and he stumbles. She reaches out without a thought and grabs his arm, steadying him. When he hesitates, a foolish little part of her hopes he might turn around and tell her he’s changed his mind. She doesn’t trust that part of her. That same foolishness had urged her to kiss him on that exact same step. He turns slowly, eyes falling to where her hand sits on his arm.

“You didn’t ask for this,” he eventually says. His gaze remains fixed on her hand, still resting on his arm. “I know you, Sigrid. You’d do anything for your people and they used that against you. They let you think marriage was the only way -”

“And it was.” She protests. “The way things were – you know it was the _only_ way.”

Her people had been broken, terrified. Their future had relied upon a Hobbit’s share of the gold, a promise they hadn’t trust the Dwarves to keep. They had no ruler, the Master was gone, their home destroyed, and their leader was a weary bargeman, struggling and out of his depth. Without the charity of Elves, they would starve, and without the gold they were promised, they would have nothing. And then the Dwarves had come to them with an offer that seemed too good to be true. They had their own agenda, of course, but it hadn’t seemed important, their reasons paled in comparison to what they were offering.

“I know.” He says quietly, his voice soft. “But things are different now.”

Sigrid isn’t so sure. Her people have never been quick to trust outsiders. They will always take the side of their own over anyone else. She doesn’t see a way of making the Dwarves not seem like the villains in the face of this, not without damaging her own reputation beyond repair. She will need her reputation, once it’s all over, so she can marry again. She has no choice.

“You don’t have to agree to this.” He says, looking at her at long last. “I won’t fight you on it.”

And he wouldn’t. She knows he wouldn’t. If she asked it of him, he would rip that contract up and never breathe a word of it again. Fíli isn’t one to break a promise. But she could never do that to him. So she shakes her head and watches, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat, as his expression shutters. She used to think she knew how to read him. Those bright blue eyes of his are usually so expressive, she never really had to wonder. Now she isn’t so sure.

“I’d better get going…” He begins, rubbing the nape of his neck.

“Try not to run into any Orcs on your way back to the mountain.” She smiles weakly.

The corner of his lip twitches up in a faint smile. 

“I’ll do my best.” He says, his eyes filled with some emotion she doesn’t understand.

“Take care of yourself, Fíli.” She sighs and turns away, unable to bear it any longer. She closes the door and leans her forehead against it, sucking in a deep breath. She thinks she hears his footsteps on the other side of the door, those heavy boots hitting the cobblestones as he walks away. She closes her eyes, steeling herself against the swell of emotions swelling up inside of her. It takes her a few minutes, but she gets there eventually.

She turns away from the door, squaring her shoulders, and walks through the house to the kitchen. Making dinner is a distraction. It helps. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t need to concentrate much on chopping vegetables but she focuses on it and nothing else. She makes a large vat of soup that will be enough to last them a few days and sets it aside for later. Once that and all the dishes are washed and dried, there isn’t much to distract her. The house is tidy, she and her father had cleaned it thoroughly only a few days ago, and there aren’t any reports left to go over.

The house is too quiet. She can hear rain lightly pitter-pattering on the roof and her own heart beating and there’s no stopping all the unwanted thoughts that come flooding into her head. She pushes her chair back, leaving the room with a heavy sigh. She walks through her house, unsure what to do with herself. She’d had plans for that afternoon, plans that she’s uncertain she is in the right mindset for. She isn’t sure she can stand being talked down to endlessly by half of her father’s counsellors when all she wants to do is curl up in bed and hide under the covers.

The stairs creak under her feet, the sound echoing around the still, silent house. It’s a far cry from the noise and chaos of Isolde’s little house.

Her step falters when she reaches her bedroom. Fíli’s cloak is still on her bed, exactly where she’d left it.

She closes her bedroom door behind her and crosses the room. It’s a cloak, nothing more, but she approaches it slowly, warily. A part of her knows – logically - she ought to go after him, it’s a long walk back to the mountain and he’ll be cold without it, but she can’t. She is too much of a coward to face him.

The tips of her fingers brush against the soft fur and she sighs, closing her eyes. She clutches Fíli’s cloak to her as she sits down on her bed, feeling his warmth still in the fabric. It smells like him. Like straw and wood smoke and something else; a smell she associates with dreamless night’s sleep, forget-me-nots, and the warmth of his smile. She turns her head, pressing her face into the soft fur collar, feeling lost.

That strange, hollow feeling is still there in her chest, but it’s beginning to ache.

Whatever it is – whatever she’s feeling is strange and unfamiliar and _confusing._ It isn’t normal. It’s not like they can’t remain friends. It isn’t as if they’ll never see each other again. She tries to drown it out but her thoughts inevitably wander back, unable to ignore the dilemma she faces. Whether or not she likes it, she has a choice to make. She can be selfish and refuse or she can give Fíli what he wants. Those are her only options, and neither sound particularly preferable. She longs for a third option – to simply have things remain as they were, and not have to change a thing.

She listens to the rain, lightly pitter-pattering on the roof, and finds it calming. She remembers the sound of the rain on the lake and the way the house used to creak and groan in the wind. The rain was never able to wash Laketown clean, the smell of fish always hung heavily in the air. She hadn’t ever thought she might miss that smell.

At the sound of the front door opening downstairs, Sigrid flops onto her back. She stares up at the ceiling as she listens to Dara and Tilda’s muffled voices and waits for the inevitable sound of their feet on the stairs.

“You’ll never guess who Dara and I ran in to!” Tilda bursts into her room like a hurricane, buried under a layer of fabric. “That old dressmaker – you know, the really sour one who never let us stand outside his shop in Laketown – his wife told us his hands don’t work as well as they used to and he can’t sew to save his life, so she gave me some of his fabric to give to you.”

“That’s nice of her.” Sigrid mumbles, propping herself up on her elbows.

Tilda sits down on the bed beside her, setting the thick bundle of fabric down beside her. “I thought - maybe, you could teach me. Y’know, to sew as nicely as you do.”

“Of course,” Sigrid smiles weakly. “But not today, I’m… I’m not feeling well.”

“Oh, no. Oh no, no, no - you’re not sick again, are you?” Tilda’s eyes widen, a stricken look of panic and worry crossing her features. It takes Sigrid a second to realise her mistake. “Those people you visited today, did they -”

“It’s nothing, Tilda, I’m fine.” Sigrid reaches out, taking both of Tilda’s hands in hers. “You don’t need to worry, I _promise_.”

“I’m going to get Dara.” Tilda is on her feet before Sigrid can protest, tearing her hands out of her grip and rushing out of the room. Sigrid, resigned, sits up and takes the roll of paper from her dress pocket. Something in her chest tightens when she sees Fíli’s signature at the bottom, a detail she hadn’t noticed before. Her lips twist in a wry, humourless smile, realising she knows now what his signature looks like. She hadn’t before. She lightly traces the spidery letters, committing them to memory.

“What’s all this about you being ill, child?” She glances up at the sound of Dara’s voice, her brief smile slipping from her lips. Dara walks into the room and forcibly presses the backs of her fingers to Sigrid’s forehead. “Mahal, you’re as white as a sheet and you feel cold. What does that mean?”

“She needs to see a healer.” Tilda answers quickly, chewing anxiously on her nails.

“Nothing.” She says, not unkindly, but with a small sigh of frustration when Dara immediately shakes her head.

“I’ll send for a healer -”

“Really, it’s not necessary -” Sigrid protests, reaching for Dara’s arm to stop the Dwarf from hurrying off. “I’m not sick.”

But Dara shakes her head, not seeming to have heard a word of what she’s said. “You said it yourself, there’s a possibility that the sickness could come back.”

“I said a _slim_ possibility. As in, incredibly unlikely.” Sigrid can’t help but point out, momentarily side-tracked. “But you’re not listening to me. I’m not sick, I promise, there’s no need to call for a healer. I’m fine. It - It’s been a long day, that’s all.”

“You don’t look fine, Sigrid.” Tilda says gently.

Dara draws back, a furrow forming between her brows. “Does this have anything to do with Fíli?”

“We saw him on the way home.” Tilda explains when Sigrid frowns, caught off-guard. Tilda steps around Dara to sit down on the bed beside her. “I think I called out to him maybe three or four times before he noticed. Was in a complete daze, he was. I asked him if he wanted to stay for dinner but he said no, said he had to go back to the mountain. Seemed quite sad about it, actually…”

There it is again – that faint little flicker of hope. She squashes it down immediately.

“He was here.” Sigrid admits, sighing. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dara and Tilda exchange a glance, something unspoken passing between the two of them. There will be no getting rid of them now. Tilda leans into her side, looping their arms together, while Dara – who misses nothing – looks meaningfully at the roll of paper resting on her lap, lifting a brow in an unspoken question. Sigrid sighs quietly, resigned, and hands Dara the roll of paper, letting her read it for herself.

Sigrid watches Dara’s expression as she scans the roll of paper, watching as the lines on her forehead deepen as she reads through the infernally long-winded document. Eventually, her lips part with a sharp intake of breath and Sigrid knows precisely what part of the document the Dwarf has reached. Unlike her, Dara doesn’t cease reading at that point, she continues with a furrow forming between her brows, her expression growing stormier as she reads on.

“This has to be some sort of joke,” Dara says at last when she reaches the end of the document. “It has to be.”

Sigrid smiles thinly. “’Fraid not.”

“What?” Tilda glances at Dara, looking confused. “What’s a joke?”

“ _This._ ” Dara waves the piece of paper over her head. “It must be a joke, if not – I swear to Mahal I will have their beards for this! If they think they can discard you like a tool that’s no longer needed – if they think that you will suffer such an insult – they will _rue_ the day!”

“Dara.” Sigrid sighs, wishing, in that moment, to be anywhere else in the world but right there. “It isn’t like that.”

“Oh? And how is it like, Sigrid?” Dara replies, the sharpness of the Dwarf’s tone startling her. Dara doesn’t seem to notice, she looks back at the document with a huff of frustration. “There is no reason listed here, no explanation – only this, _a mutually agreed dissolution of an, official, but unconsummated, union_.” Dara’s gaze lifts, her expression softening somewhat. “Am I to understand that you never…”

“No.” She mutters, her embarrassment quickly turning into irritation, which in turn turns into something else – leaving her a jumbled mess of emotion, with no way of knowing what it is she’s actually feeling.

Dara hums thoughtfully, looking again at the roll of paper in her hand. “Divorce is uncommon amongst our people. Separation, however, is more common. That needs no explanation. Marriage is a contract, _binding,_ but the vows we make to each other are only binding if we see that it is. I imagine this nonsense is for your people. I’d wager your laws are different to ours.”

She can see the reason and the thought behind it, in the way it’s most likely intended – it’s a way for her to marry again, without there being any question of whether or not she’s _used goods._ The thought leaves a bad taste in her mouth, along with the knowledge that everyone – both her people and Dwarves alike – will know far more about her marriage and personal business than she would have liked.

“Oh, Sigrid.” Tilda murmurs, her voice soft and sad. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sigrid musters a smile, unable to bear her sister’s sympathy. “It’s not as if what we had was real.”

Tilda lifts her head from her shoulder, a look of confusion crossing her face. “But it was. I mean, it _is._ It has to be real.”

“It was a contract, a way of securing an -”

“Maybe at first.” Tilda cuts in, shaking her head. “But I’ve seen the way you look at him. I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that. And the way he looks at you when you’re not looking – you should have seen the way he was looking at you during the Yule party, watching you dance with all those drunken idiots! I know what I saw, Sigrid, there was no faking that.”

“Tilda, don’t.” Her voice cracks, betraying her.

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Tilda says, seemingly unable to let it go. “Why would Fíli do this? Did he at least tell you why?”

“He wants to be happy.” She shrugs. “And he isn’t with me.”

“We can attest this.” Dara suddenly says, with a hard look in her eyes. “I won’t let them do this to you.”

“And then what?” Sigrid snaps, pushing herself off of the bed and onto her feet. Tilda reaches for her, catches her elbow, but Sigrid shakes her off. She stalks across the room to the fireplace, the vase Hywel had given to her catching her gaze. She wonders, offhandedly, if the Dwarf will want it back once she is no longer his Prince’s wife. “Do you suggest I keep Fíli trapped in a marriage he doesn’t want? A loveless marriage – is that something you would want, Dara? Do you think that’s what _I_ want - to be married to someone who can never love me? Who will likely grow to despise me?”

Her eyes burn and her vision blurs.

“Would that be enough for you?” She asks with a sad, weary note seeping into her voice as she looks back at Dara. “Because it isn’t enough for me.”

“You told me something once.” Dara begins slowly, carefully. “You told me that you married him for your people. If you do this, if you agree, you will be choosing one person’s happiness over your people. Are you really willing to do that?”

It takes Sigrid a long time to answer.

“For Fíli, I would.” She eventually decides, knowing that to answer any other way would be a lie.

Her answer doesn’t seem to surprise Dara as much as it surprises her.

“And what does that tell you?”

“What do you expect me to say, Dara?” She doesn’t want to have this conversation. Every fibre of her being pushes against it, tells her to order them to leave, to flee the room if need be – anything to avoid talking about it. Whatever uncharted terrain they’re edging towards, it terrifies her. “We’re friends, Dara. I’d do the same for anyone of my friends.”

“Maybe.” Dara hums. “But sacrificing everything you’ve worked so hard for? All for the sake of one person?”

“For someone I care about, yes -”

“Ah.” A strange sort of smile tugs at Dara’s lips, giving her the impression that the other woman is mocking her. “So you care about him?”

She huffs, frustrated. “Of course I do, I -”

Sigrid stops short, the words cutting off as her breath catches in her throat. Pieces. That’s all she’s had for so long. Pieces of a puzzle that never seem to fit together. She’s tried, for months, to put it all together and come up blank every time. She blinks, her gaze shifting from Dara to Tilda and then back. The two both share the same watchful, expectant expression, as if they’re both waiting on a moment they’re sure is to come. They seem to know something that she doesn’t. It comes flooding back to her then, whether she likes it or not, all the months of confusion and misunderstandings and all the moments where she felt she was _missing_ something – _someone -_

Absently, Sigrid finds herself walking across the room, back to her sister’s side. Tilda reaches for her, grasping her left hand tightly in both of her own. The ring gleams in the candlelight, catching her attention. Dwarves don’t wear wedding rings. Fíli is the only Dwarf in Erebor to wear one. She’s never thought about it until now. But something about it – something warms inside her chest, chasing away the ache in her heart for a brief, sweet moment.

She thinks on Dara’s question. She thinks about what that tells her.  

“Oh.” Is all she can manage to say, as all the pieces of the puzzle finally come together.

She knows then, that even if she is not ready to call it love, what she feels for him can be nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter chapter than usual, but a much needed one, me thinks.
> 
> it's 4am here for me so please forgive me for any mistakes, my proof-reading isn't to be trusted at this time of day.
> 
> thanks, as always, for reading and i hope you enjoyed this chapter <3


	23. Chapter 23

“I don’t love him.” Sigrid whispers under her breath, as if to test out the words. Her eyes flicker up and around the room instinctively, checking for listening ears before she tries the words again. “I don’t love him.”

She thinks, hopelessly, that maybe the words will be true if she says them often enough.

The words she has been trying to convince herself are the truth still don’t ring true. The others know it too, if the careful way both Dara and Tilda have been treating her, tiptoeing around the subject of Fíli all week, is anything to go by. Tilda watches her like she’s waiting for her collapse at any moment, needing desperately a shoulder to cry on.  Perhaps she might have been like that, drowning in despair, if not for one niggling thought that wouldn’t leave her alone -

In spite of everything that has happened, Sigrid can’t quite forget about the kiss.

Absently, she touches her lips, the memory of his still lingering. It would be better, for all of them, if she could forget about it. Yet, she remembers. She remembers the feel of calloused fingers, rough from years of hard work and fighting, against her skin and the kiss that was anything but chaste. No one had ever kissed her like that before. The thought refuses to escape her head, that why – _why –_ would he kiss her, when his heart belonged to someone else. That, and the bewildering question of who – who did he love – has kept her awake at night.

With a heavy sigh, Sigrid leans against the wall behind her. As much as she hates the thought of being seen an obstacle, standing in the way of him and his love, the thought of Fíli having loved and lost is worse.

“Sigrid.” Dara glances at her from across the room, her expression grave. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Her lips twitch in a faint, humourless smile. “Do I have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice.” Dara presses. But Sigrid isn’t so sure. Her eyes, wistful, flicker to the closed door in front of them. On the other side of that door, Fíli is waiting for her. Waiting for a day he has longed for for who knows how long. And then there’s her - she feels foolish in the pretty new dress Dara had forced her to wear. It feels as if she’s dressed up for the moment she has been dreading for days. And any moment now, the door opposite her will open and she’ll have to face up to everything she wishes she could run from. “If only you would talk to him, then perhaps…”

She tips her head back with a heavy sigh. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

She regrets not letting Tilda and her father come with her. Even Bain had offered, stopping her on the way out of the door that morning with hard eyes and an angry set to his mouth. He had been fuming all week, ever since he had found out. At the sight of her red-rimmed eyes he’d looked upon the mountain with such a fury, she knew it would be a long time before he could be in the same room as Fíli again. She hadn’t wanted to bring any of them with her, knowing it would only make things worse. But in that moment, all she wants is to fall into her father’s arms and have her brother and sister by her side.

“This is for the best.” She eventually sighs, echoing Fíli’s words.

“For you or for him?” Dara asks.

Sigrid doesn’t know how to answer, so she merely shrugs, as if to say _it is what it is._

Dara purses her lips, but she doesn’t voice her disapproval. Sigrid is grateful, she doesn’t have it in her to Dara with argue about this anymore. Instead, the Dwarf starts rummaging through the satchel hanging by her side.

“I have those building outlines you asked for,” she tells her as she pulls several loose pieces of paper from her satchel. “If you’re in need of a distraction.”

“That was quick.” Sigrid says, surprised, as she takes the papers from Dara. “Thank you.”

She’s glad of the distraction. It’s what she’s filled her week with, in an attempt to keep her mind off of things.

Though the idea had been approved by her father’s council, the prospect of starting a school has proved difficult. She had underestimated just how many children there are in Dale and how much room they would all take up. While she knows, come spring, a new building could be constructed, it seems unnecessary when there are so many unoccupied buildings in Dale - but even those would require extensive repairs, and that could take months.

Sigrid sifts through the building outlines, trying to remember which buildings she had visited personally and which Dara had had to go in her place. She pauses at one building in particular, a townhouse in the same courtyard as the Great Hall. It had been one of the first she had visited. She’d struck it from her list the moment she stepped inside the building, knowing it would be too small, but something about it had made her pause.

“Why has no one claimed this?” She had asked Percy while taking in the high ceilings and stone walls. Aside from decades of dust and disrepair, the broken staircase was the only major structural damage she could see. It didn’t make any sense for it to have been left unoccupied or for repairs not to have been started on it yet.

“Well, I s’pose we all assumed either you or Lady Tilda would take it, as it used to belong to Lord Girion’s sister.” Percy had answered with a shrug.

And strangely, in that moment, Sigrid had started to imagine what it might have looked like. It wasn’t as large or as grand as Lord Girion’s home but there was something about it, something that made her look twice. There were dusty, moth-eaten tapestries hanging from the walls, depicting something she liked to imagine was from Dale’s history, and the remnants of old, intricately designed candle chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The metal-work looked Dwarven, gleaming even under cobwebs and decades upon decades of dust.

“Looks out onto plains and the lake. Imagine that would be quite the view from the balcony. Shame we can’t get up there and see.” Percy had said, gesturing to the broken stairs. “Oh well, shall we move onto the next place?”

Sigrid lowers the building outline with a small sigh, unsure why she keeps lingering on the place. It’s a _home,_ not a school house, and therefore should have no interest. She imagines if she ever voiced her confusion, Dara would no doubt fix her with a knowing stare, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Most of these just don’t have the space,” Sigrid sighs. “Da suggested having something built outside the city walls but I’m not sure, not after -”

She stops, realising she has never discussed the Orcs she and Fíli had stumbled upon with Dara.

But then again, she hadn’t really discussed it with anyone.

“Not after what?” Dara queries.

Before she can answer, the door opposite them suddenly opens.

“They’re ready for you now. But take as much time as you need, Princess.” Glaran, her trusty knight, says as he steps out of the room. He glances back once the door is closed, grimacing. “Let them wait.”

Sigrid musters up a smile. “Thank you, Glaran.”

Wordlessly, Dara takes back the pieces of paper and returns them to her satchel. Sigrid’s gaze returns to the door once more as she tries her hardest to ignore the feeling of dread building up inside of her. Dara’s sad eyes watch her as she starts towards the door. Glaran touches her shoulder when she passes, offering her an encouraging smile. But she hesitates when she reaches the door, her feet unwilling to move. She considers, for a brief, foolish moment, a world in which she is brave and able to say that which she knows she cannot; it would be such an easy thing, to just speak the truth, to see if there is even the slightest chance of Fíli feeling the same way.

She isn’t brave like her father, but she gathers all the courage she has and pushes open that door.

The room falls silent when she steps inside. As if it weren’t already bad enough.

Dara keeps close; she can feel her hand at the small of her back when she takes one step and then another until she stands in front of the great stone table in the centre of the room. Two chairs are sat on her side of the table and half a dozen on the other, flanking a high-backed, stone throne. And there, stood beside the throne, with his hands clasped behind his back, is Fíli.

His eyes lift at once, as if sensing her gaze. He looks back at her, the russet fur on his cloak bringing out his blue eyes, making them especially bright, and she finds she can hold his gaze for only a moment.

Balin, with his kind eyes and warm smile, nods respectfully when her gaze shifts to him.

“Well, now that we’re all here,” the white haired Dwarf says as he gestures to the table. “Shall we begin?”

There’s a murmur of agreement, following which, King Thorin takes his seat on the throne and Fíli and Balin take the chairs either side of him. There are other Dwarves, unfamiliar to her, who she assumes sit on King Thorin’s council, so it’s a surprise to see Ori sat amongst them with a large tome open in front of him. There to document the meeting, she supposes. She sits down slowly, reluctantly, and forces herself to keep her chin lifted and her back straight. She won’t let herself shrink under their gazes.

It strikes her as odd that Kíli isn’t there, sat at his brother’s side. It would have been nice to have a friend amongst them.

Sigrid had been in a similar situation once before, the day they had drawn up her and Fíli’s marriage contract. The Dwarves had been in a position of power then, able to make demands of her and her people. She wonders where they stand now.

“We all know why we’re here.” Thorin says gruffly, his eyes hard as he turns his gaze onto his nephew. “What you ask of us is a thing not easily done.”

“Aye.” Several of the Dwarves mutter in agreement.

“I cannot speak for how it is for the people of Dale, but divorce – annulment – whatever you choose to call it – is uncommon amongst our people.”

“Not to mention, marriage is a legally binding contract.” Balin adds, raising his snowy brows at Fíli. “It isn’t just vows.”

“Aye.” The same Dwarves collectively mutter again.

“By doing this, you will break vows that should not have been easily untaken,” Thorin continues, his eyes never leaving his nephew’s face. A lesser man would have cowered under such a gaze but not Fíli. “The fragile ties between our peoples may sever and your position as my heir may be called into question – so I will ask you again, one last time, if this is worth it.”

Her gaze, inevitably, is drawn back to Fíli.

Fíli meets her gaze, jaw clenching for a brief moment before, unflinchingly, he answers.

“It is.”

Under the table, hidden from view, Dara takes her hand and squeezes.

Sigrid looks away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. She wants to be angry with him. She wants to be angry with him the way Bain is. She wants to push back her chair and tell them to go hell. She wants to be finished with Dwarves. A part of her even wants to hate him, so that the ache in her chest whenever she thinks about him might go away. But she can’t, not when it feels like she’s missing something. There are so many things that don’t make sense, so many pieces of the puzzles left to be filled.

 _Forgive me,_ he had asked after he kissed her. Forgive him for what, she wonders.

She had wanted to kiss him under the mistletoe on the night of the Yule and he had walked away from her, and yet, later, he had been the one to kiss her. It hadn’t been a drunken mistake, and there hadn’t been a silly plant or tradition forcing his hand, he had acted all on his own. And what she wants, most of all, is to know _why._

The three unfamiliar Dwarves are muttering amongst themselves in khuzdul, speaking too quietly for her to ask Dara to translate. One of them looks at her and shakes his head, clucking his tongue.

“And you, lass?” Balin smiles kindly, turning his attention to her. “I know this wasn’t exactly your idea, but I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

“It’s – I don’t -” Caught off guard, she stumbles. She looks to Dara, who squeezes her hand and gives her a small, encouraging smile. She thinks back on their conversation, on the words of advice her dear friend had offered. _There’s always a choice,_ Dara had said. So she takes a breath and tries again. “You’re asking me if I think this is worth it?” She queries, refusing to let herself back down when every instinct she has is telling her to just keep her mouth shut. “The truth is, I don’t know. I thought I did, but now I’m not so certain.”

There is a collective sound of outrage and disapproval from the three Dwarves she doesn’t recognise, making it feel as if she’s performing in a mummer’s play.

“And where exactly does that leave us?” One of the Dwarves demands, throwing up his hands. “With all due respect, Your Highness, I was led to believe this matter was settled, that today was about negotiating the contract!”

“I don’t know where that leaves us, I’m afraid.” She answers truthfully, her voice, by some miracle, remaining steady. Her pulse is thundering in her ears and the hand Dara doesn’t hold trembles, but she doesn’t let it show. She forces herself to keep her chin raised as she tries desperately to keep her nerve and not run from this. “Forgive me, but there are still some matters to be discussed.”

At that, Fíli lifts his head, looking at her in confusion. She finds it strange. He doesn’t look at her with anger or disappointment that she isn’t following along with this charade without a fight, but confusion. She tilts her head to one side, trying to make sense of the Dwarf sat opposite her, who she had thought she knew so well.

“If I may,” Dara interjects. “Men divorce for reasons such as abuse or infidelity. My lady’s people will not accept this without a clear reason as to why, and that has yet to be established.”

“Aye, but is it not true that a marriage between Lady Sigrid’s people isn’t official unless it’s – well, consummated?” Balin asks, having the decency to at least look a little embarrassed. “As it stands, it’s Lady Sigrid’s word against the Prince’s. Unless she can provide proof that the marriage was indeed consummated then there are grounds for an annulment.”

 _Proof._ The very thought makes her feel sick. All the Dwarves in the room, save Fíli, are looking at her, waiting for her response. But she doesn’t have one. Both she and Fíli know there is no proof and to say otherwise would be a lie. Though, admitting it would reveal more about herself and her marriage than she ever wished to share. Feeling cornered and her resolve starting to crumble, Sigrid glances across at Dara and tugs on her hand. The Dwarf turns and, sensing her discomfort, leans in so that she can whisper in her ear.

“I need a minute, how do I excuse myself without being rude?” She whispers, needing desperately to escape the room and all its watchful eyes. Dara nods, squeezing her hand again before she draws away, turning her attention back to the Dwarves sat opposite them.

“Lady Sigrid needs a moment to gather her thoughts. I propose we pause for a brief recess.” Dara announces to the room, not a request, but a demand.

“Alright.” Thorin sighs, looking entirely fed up with the situation. “We’ll break for quarter of an hour and then meet back here. Agreed?”

“Aye.” The Dwarves agree.

Sigrid pushes back her chair, rising to her feet with as much dignity as she can muster. Ori blinks in surprise when Balin reaches over and closes the heavy tome sat in front of him. She bows her head respectfully to King Thorin before she turns on her heel and walks out of the room. Dara, she notes, remains behind, saying something quietly in khuzdul to Balin. Glaran is still stood outside, guarding the door. He calls after her as she brushes past him and flees down the corridor.

“It’s alright, Glaran.” She calls over her shoulder, pausing for a brief second when she hears his heavy footsteps start to follow. “I just need a moment to myself.”

She needs _air_ and there’s only one place in the mountain where she can get it.

Her rooms, mercifully, aren’t far and that part of the mountain is quiet, leaving her about to get back to her quarters without being noticed.

She breathes a sigh of relief when she throws open the door to her rooms, immediately striding across the living room to draw back the heavy curtains and throw open the windows. She has never been more grateful for Bilbo Baggins and the King who gifted him with _windows_ in the strange, lightless place that is the Lonely Mountain.

With a heavy sigh, Sigrid leans against the window sill, breathing in the cold, fresh air.

Resting her forehead against the cool glass, she looks down at the view below her. The world outside is still, the sky dark and overcast. The air is chilly and damp after the early morning rain, the sweet smell that comes after the rain reminding her of home. The lingering mist in the valley hides the lake from sight and hangs over the city and the hills, promising more rain to come. She had noticed the first shoots of new growth in the earth, sprouting along the roadside on her walk to the mountain, giving her hope that the long winter is almost over.

After the winter they had had, they deserve a warm spring and a long, fruitful summer.

She wonders what Ered Luin is like in the summer. Dis had painted a pretty picture of the place where Fíli had grown up. With a slight shake of her head, she understands what her mother-in-law had been trying to tell her when they had stood in this very room, weeks ago. She had been unexpectedly kind, considering what her son had been planning to do.

“Sigrid?” She half-turns at the sound of her name, followed by the sound of the door creaking open. She doesn’t have to look to know who it is.

She isn’t surprised that he followed her. She should have expected it, really.

“I’m sorry if they embarrassed you -” He begins but stops short when she turns to face him fully with one eyebrow raised. He looks smaller than usual, and a great deal younger, with a lack of armour, his hands shoved boyishly into his pockets, and his shoulders hunched. He does look sorry though, for that she cannot fault him.

“What did you expect?” She says stiffly, her tone far sharper than she intended.

“I don’t know.” Fíli admits, an almost guilty look flitting over his features. “I should’ve – I should have -” He stops short again with a sigh, bowing his head. “You don’t have to be there. You don’t have to go back, if you don’t want to.”

It’s a tempting offer, but Sigrid shakes her head, knowing the meeting will not go through without her presence. Eventually they both will have to go back. She will have to tell them the truth that no, in the eyes of her people, their marriage isn’t real and it never was. She will have to face their judgement and their disapproval and know that she will, in time, have to face the same from her own people. With a small sigh, she turns back to the window, idly drawing circles in the condensation caused by her breath. Below, there are people walking the path between Dale and the mountain. Watching them brings to mind something she’d almost forgotten about.

“Why did you keep the flower I gave you?” She finds herself wondering aloud without looking at him, gaze fixed on the people below. “It seems strange now that I think of it. Dwarves don’t care about flowers, and yet… you kept it. Why?”

“Because you gave it to me.” He answers simply.

She laughs quietly. “I never kept any of the gifts you gave me.”

“Aye, but that was different.” He says with a hint of humour in his voice. She can hear his footsteps drawing closer, slowly, hesitantly. “I didn’t know you then. I treated you as I would a Dwarf and that was my mistake.”

“Do you often give out diamond necklaces?” She quips.

When Fíli doesn’t answer, she sighs. She should have known better than to expect a response, even if it had been a joke. He can feel him watching her warily, no doubt expecting her to ask what kind of gifts he gives the person he actually loves. The thought, though born from a petty, bitter place inside of her, makes her pause. If their marriage was merely an arrangement to him, why would he give her such a gift? He had seemed so offended when she tried to return the locket he had given her as well.

It feels as if the more she tries to make sense of it all, the more it doesn't add up. She has bits and pieces, but not quite enough to fit the puzzle together.

Absently, her hand lowers from the window to twist her wedding band.

“I meant what I said, you don’t have to go back. Dara can speak for you.” Fíli gently says when he comes to stand beside her at the window, bracing his hands against the wooden frame, only inches away from hers. Her eyes linger on his own wedding ring, the gold catching the light, yet to be removed. “Or we can do this another day, if that’s what you want.”

“What I want?” She hums in thought, mulling over the word. “What I want is the truth, Fíli.”

Sigrid isn’t brave like her father, but she’s isn’t a coward either. And all she needs is a few of seconds of courage.

“Why did you kiss me?” She finds it within herself to ask, to at last voice the question that has been plaguing her for so long. She slowly raises her head and finds him staring at her, his eyes wide and filled with an emotion she does not recognise. “I need to understand,” she continues, her voice wavering faintly. “If this is what you were planning, then why? Why did you kiss me, Fíli?”

“I told you – I shouldn’t have done it, I -”

She raises her hand to prevent him from going any further. “That doesn’t answer my question. Please, just tell me the truth.”

Fíli catches her hand before she can lower it, his grip loose enough that she can easily pull away if she wanted to. She watches him, studying his face as his thumb runs gently over her knuckles, handling her hand like it’s something precious. Yet another little thing that doesn’t make sense. She likes to think she has many friends, but none treat her the way Fíli does. No one looks at her or touches her the way he does, like she’s delicate, but not weak, and soft, but still somehow strong. And sometimes, the way that he looks at her – it makes her feel like she’s worthy of being looked at.

She turns her hand over slowly, watching his face as she lightly traces the lines on the palm of his hand with the tips of her fingers, revelling in the way that he shivers.

“I have never lied to you.” He tells her, his eyes lowered, fixed on their hands.

“No,” she acquiesces softly. “But you haven’t told me the whole truth either.”

Eventually he shakes with head, his voice softening nearly to a whisper. “No, I suppose I haven’t.”

“I need to know before we go back into that room.” She presses, wary of breaking the fragile peace between them. She doesn’t want to argue with him or force him to reveal secrets kept close to the heart but she needs to know the truth before she lets him walk away from her and their marriage. “If it was a mistake, if you regret it –”

“I don’t regret it.” The words are spoken softly, earnestly, but they don’t match the stricken look in his eyes or the furrow between his brows. “But I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have taken such a liberty with you. Not when – not when I knew it was not welcomed.”

“Not welcomed?” She repeats quietly to herself, wondering if she’s the only one who remembered that night beneath the mistletoe.

“Aye, not welcomed.” Fíli says, his tone harsher than before. He pulls away, letting her hand fall back to her side. He looks away, his jaw clenched as he stares at the valley below, a strange look on his face. A look that somehow falls between both anger and resignation. She thinks she might have seen that look before, at the night of the Yule party when they had helped a very drunk Gared back to her house. He’d watched her tuck the poor, drunken fool into bed with a similar expression on his face.

He turns his back on her and for a brief, horrible moment she thinks he’s about to walk away from her. Suddenly the breeze blowing in through the open windows is cold, unnerving. Without her cloak she shivers. But Fíli doesn’t walk away from her. He hangs his head with a heavy sigh but doesn’t walk away.

“I know well enough by now that your heart belongs elsewhere.” He says with the same sad, strained note that she has grown familiar with in the last few months seeping into his voice. She hears it now - the pain and the longing in his voice, so present that she doesn’t know how she missed it.

She thinks she feels her heart – the one he swears he knows so well – break, knowing that he has carried so much pain on his own for so long.

It belongs elsewhere _,_ he’d said of her heart. But with who? Who does he think she loves?

A shaky breath escapes her as she realises the answer. Gared. It cannot be anyone but him. She had loved Gared once, but it had been a girlish kind of love. She’d mistaken friendship for something else, for something _more_. She loves him still, but it’s a different kind of love. It’s nothing like what she feels now, with hope rising like a tide inside of her.

She thinks maybe she understands now; that, at last, she has all the pieces she needs. But she needs to hear it. She needs to hear the words from his lips so that there can be no more misunderstandings between them. She needs the whole truth, once and for all.

“And what about you?” She murmurs, her voice soft, unsteady. “What about your heart?”

Fíli turns slowly, with great reluctance. He looks at her in a way she recognises, like someone readying themself to say goodbye. She’s seen that look too many times in her life. She can’t bear to see it again on him. She opens her mouth to say something, to bring him some form of comfort, but he beats her to it.

“It belongs to you.” Fíli says, his clear blue eyes never straying from her face. “It has since the moment you gave me that flower.”

Almost instinctively, she reaches out, hand trembling ever so slightly, to tentatively run her hand up his chest to his heart. She can feel his heartbeat, thudding wildly beneath her palm. It makes her wonder if she makes him as nervous as he makes her, something which she draws courage from.

Fíli closes his eyes, a weary sigh slipping from his lips. “And now you know.”

Words get caught in her throat. All that time, she despairs, he was keeping his true feelings hidden, unspoken. If only he had told her – if only she had realised sooner -

So Sigrid does the only thing that makes sense: she closes the space between them and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're almost at the end, i can't believe it. just two more chapters to go! thank you all so much for being patient with me, i know it's always a long wait between chapters, and for sticking with this story. love you guys <3


	24. Chapter 24

It’s a faint, whisper of a kiss. Tentative and soft.

Barely there, the kiss is a reminder of the one they shared on their wedding day. So much has changed since that day, it seems like so long ago now. She doesn’t dare let herself kiss him the way she wants to and pour all the things she cannot say into it, not yet at least, because even now, after everything, the fear of rejection still lingers.

But his lips are soft, and the startled noise he makes in the back of his throat is sweet, and his heart beats erratically under her palm. She thinks she feels him move, tilting his head back a fraction, pressing back ever so faintly against her lips before he draws away. It gives her hope that she hasn’t misstepped. That she hasn’t misunderstood.

His bright blue eyes open, wild and desperate as they search her face.

“I don’t –” He starts to say raggedly, the words catching in his throat. “Sigrid -”

Sigrid has never thought much about love. She loves her family more than words can say, but she was never like Tilda; she never dreamed of being whisked off of her feet by some handsome prince. While her dear little sister’s head was in the clouds, Sigrid was always set firmly on the ground, rooted to her harsh reality. She thinks maybe a part of her had thought it wasn’t worth the pain. She had seen what loving someone too much had done to her father. Love wouldn’t put food on the table, it wouldn’t keep her family safe, it wouldn’t take her away from Lake-town if she wished for it hard enough, it would only hurt her if it all went wrong.

But looking at Fíli, she knows that he is worth the risk.

She doesn’t want to hold back in fear of what might happen if it goes wrong. She wants to be bold for once in her life.

“You’re wrong.” She says when words fail him. Her hand moves from his chest to touch his bearded cheek. “You’re _wrong.”_ She says again, her voice barely more than a whisper. She feels his shuddering breath, warm against her lips. It gives her the courage she needs to continue.

“I don’t know much about love.” She admits softly, trailing her fingers along his bearded jaw. It gives her a small thrill to be able to touch him so freely. So often she had wanted to touch him in the past and held back, thinking it would be unwelcome or make things awkward between them. Fíli’s gaze falls to her lips, watching them form her next words with his eyes wide and filled with wonder. “But I know what I feel.”

A small furrow forms between Fíli’s brows as he seems to force himself to lift his gaze from her lips. Her Dwarf looks dazed, like he doesn’t know if he can believe what he’s seeing or hearing. It brings a small smile to her lips, which immediately draws back his gaze. They are so close, closer than they have ever been. Her smile grows as she spies the golden clasp in his hair, the one that matches hers, and a breathless laugh escapes her lips.

“And what do you feel?” Fíli asks at last, his voice low and rough.

Before she can answer, there’s a knock at the door.

The sudden noise breaks the quiet, still air around them, startling them both. Sigrid jumps away from him in shock, her wide eyes turning to the door. A moment later she hears Dara’s voice calling to her from the otherwise of the door. The Dwarf sounds concerned. It’ll be time, she realises despairingly. Time for them to go back. But she isn’t ready. They haven’t had enough time. There is still so much she needs to say. She starts towards the door and Fíli catches hold of her arm before she can even take a step. His fingers loosen when she pauses, sliding down her arm to gently take hold of her wrist.

“Don’t answer it.” Fíli says, as close to begging as she has ever heard him.

She blinks in surprise, taken aback by the desperate look in his eyes. Had he thought she was going to leave? She lays her hand over his, trying for a reassuring smile.

“Just give me a minute.” She says, squeezing his hand. “Dara won’t go away unless I ask her to.”

Fíli seems to hesitate for a moment before he nods, releasing his hold on her wrist. She thinks she sees doubt in his eyes and yet, he lets her go anyway.

She glances over her shoulder at the door when Dara knocks again, torn. She wants to tell him everything, so that there can be no room for doubt, but knows the moment will be lost if Dara walks into the room and interrupts it.  She knows the Dwarf well enough to know that she won’t leave unless she’s sure Sigrid doesn’t need her. So she leans down before she can lose her nerve and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. His beard tickles her cheek as she draws away.

Walking away is harder than it should be. She knows she won’t be long, but it doesn’t feel that way. She looks back as she reaches the door in time to see him turn away, turning to look out the window at the valley below. She hesitates just for a moment, wondering what must be going through his head, before she opens the door to a very flustered looking Dara. Sigrid quickly steps out of the room and into the corridor before the Dwarf can barge inside.

“Thank Mahal! When you hurried off like that, I thought you’d be half-way to Dale by now.” Dara sighs in relief, but her dark eyes are filled with concern as they search Sigrid’s face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alright.” She replies, waving off her friend’s concern. “I just needed some air.” 

“Are you sure?’ Dara asks, her concern still lingering. She lifts her hand, firmly pressing the backs of her fingers against Sigrid’s forehead. “You look at little flushed…”

Sigrid ducks her head, her cheeks growing even warmer. “I’m fine, I promise.”

Dara doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t press the issue. Instead the Dwarf lowers her hand and takes a step back.

“Forgive me, child, but…” Dara looks away, glancing down at her boots with a weary sigh. “They’ve been asking after you. Are you ready to go back?”

Sigrid shakes her head. “Not yet.”

Dara’s eyes flicker up and then to the door behind her. She can practically see the gears turning in her head.

“Yes,” Sigrid says before her friend can ask. “Fíli’s in there. So you see why I can’t go back. Not yet, not until… not until I…”

“Not until you tell him how you feel?” Dara guesses. Sigird nods, deciding against denying it, and a hint of a smile tugs at the Dwarf’s lips.

“Except…” Sigrid frowns, following Dara’s gaze. The thick oaken wooden door seems like so much more of a barrier than it should. Somewhere behind that closed door is Fíli. And he’s waiting for her. And suddenly, she’s afraid again. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Words have never been her strong suit. They fail her, whenever she needs them most. She doesn’t know how to put into words what she’s feeling.

The corners of Dara’s eyes crinkle as she smiles fondly up at her. She takes hold of both of Sigrid’s trembling hands and grips them tightly. It pulls her attention back, forcing her to listen.

“In my experience, if you speak from your heart you can never go wrong.”

“But how? I don’t -” Sigrid’s protest is cut short when Dara releases her hands and takes hold of her shoulders instead.

“Just focus on what you feel and go from there.” The dark haired Dwarf says before she forcibly turns her around to face the door. Sigrid makes a startled noise of protest that Dara clicks her tongue at. “Trust me.” She tries to back away but the Dwarf keeps her firmly in place. “This is what you’re going to do: you’re going to go back into that room and say the first thing that comes to mind.”

“What about the council?”

“I’ll deal with the council.” Dara smiles wryly and gives Sigrid’s shoulders an encouraging shove in the direction of the door. “You can do this, Sigrid. You don’t need fancy words or flowery nonsense. Just think about your prince and what he means to you and then say whatever comes to mind.”

Sigrid is only dimly aware of Dara patting her on the back and wishing her luck before she departs, walking purposefully down the corridor. It leaves her very much alone in the empty, quiet corridor. She shivers, rubbing her bare forearms, wishing for the umpteenth time that she had thought to bring her coat with her. She stares at the wooden door in front of her, heart hammering in her chest, trying to do as her friend had asked.

Sigrid doesn’t know much about love. She hadn’t even recognised it at first. It’s not something she’s ever had to think much about.

With Gared, she had confused what was solely friendship with love, and with Fíli she had confused something else – something more – with friendship. Her feelings for him were a surprise; they had slowly changed and grown over time without her even knowing. It hadn’t supposed to be that way. Their marriage was meant to be nothing more than an arrangement, a way to forever strengthen the bond between the Dwarves of Erebor and the people of Dale. Or so Sigrid thought.

All she knows is that until she met Fíli it felt like something was missing. She had always felt a little out of place, unsure, and uncertain of who she truly is. So much of her life hasn’t made sense, first she was a poor bargeman’s daughter, with no hope of having a better life than the one she was born into, and then she was suddenly someone else, a princess of two strange and unfamiliar kingdoms. And yet, amongst all that change, there was Fíli. Always there when she needed him, always there to keep her steady. Looking back, she can’t pinpoint the moment when it began. He’d crept up on her, slowly working his way into her heart, never to be removed.

Sigrid’s hand finds the door handle. She pushes open the door.

 _Say the first thing that comes to mind_ , Dara had instructed. So she does.

“I don’t love Gared.” Sigrid says, all in a breathless rush. Fíli turns slowly, his brows drawn together. She takes a step towards him, wringing her hands as her second thought comes to mind. This one she struggles with. The words get caught in her throat. She owes it to him to be honest and to somehow find a way to speak from her heart. She takes another step and then another until she’s stood in the centre of the room. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, focusing on what she knows.

She thinks about Lake-town and how she had been so certain she had been about to die, but Fíli had saved her without a moment's hesitation. She thinks about him being willing to share his people’s secret language with her, regardless of the consequences. She thinks about the morning by the lake, when he had held her until her tears had dried. She thinks about how he makes her laugh. She thinks about him teaching her how to fight. She thinks about every peaceful, dreamless night’s sleep she has had with him. She thinks about him being there for her and taking care of her when she was unwell.

She thinks back on it all and knows what she needs to say. So she says the first thing that comes to mind, the words honest and true.

“I love you.”

She opens her eyes when she hears a shuddering breath escape his lips.

But his reaction is not as immediate as she would have liked. For what feels like a very long time, he just stands there, stock-still, staring at her. She doesn’t know how to read the expression on his face. It makes her flush, wondering if she had perhaps said too much, too soon. She takes a hesitant step towards him, her mouth opening to speak, and it seems to break whatever spell had fallen over him.

She blinks and suddenly he’s striding across the room towards her. Whatever words she had been about to say are lost when he stretches up, one hand sliding into her hair, the other at her waist, and kisses her.

Her hands soon find his broad shoulders, instinctively twining her arms around his neck. As if in response, his hand tightens at her waist, drawing her closer.

This kiss is different. She gets lost in it. There isn’t the same wild desperation in it as when he had kissed her outside the sickbay and it isn’t the soft, tentative kiss they had shared before. It’s fervent and hopeful and spreads warmth through her like wildfire. He pours everything into it and so does she.

They break apart when the need for air grows too great and she leans in close, resting her forehead against his as they both catch their breath.

“I love you.” Fíli whispers then, his lips brushing against hers. She never would have thought three little words could bring her such joy. But alas, there she is, feeling like she might, perhaps, burst from joy. She laughs breathlessly as all her fears and doubts melt away. She had expected to walk away from the mountain that day with her heart broken and instead she had got everything she hadn’t known she had wanted. “Mahal save me, I never thought I’d ever get a chance to say that.”

His hands find her face as he leans back, his eyes opening so he can look at her.

His eyes are bright, bluer than she has ever seen. His expression is warm and soft and _familiar_ , she realises. She wonders how many times he had looked at her like that and she hadn’t known, hadn’t _understood_. They had lost so much time because she had been blind, unable to see what was right in front of her all along. She thinks, for the first time, she recognises that warm look for that it is –

 _Love_.

“I should have told you, my love.” He breathes, his eyes soft and filled with affection as they search her face. “I should have told you so long ago but I was a fool.”

“No, you -” She begins to say, but he quells her protest by touching the tips of his fingers to her lips.

“I was.” He insists as he lightly traces the shape of her parted lips with his index finger. “You asked me once, why I wasn’t scared of Orcs. When we went out into battle, deep down I didn’t think I’d make it. And when we survived – _somehow,_ against all the odds _­–_ I thought to myself that there must be a reason.” His hand finds hers, slowly lifting it to his lips. He reverently kisses her knuckles and then the gold band of her wedding ring. “That’s why I wasn’t afraid of those Orcs. It’s you. I survived because of _you_. So I could love you – marry you –”

She doesn’t even see him move; one second he’s gazing at her, his lips lingering against the back of her hand, and in the next his mouth is on hers. The scrape of his beard is a pleasant burn, something she’s surprised to find that she likes. She smiles into the kiss, unable to help it.

“And yet,” she can’t help but laugh, breaking the kiss. “You tried to divorce me.”

Fíli groans, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. “You’re not going to let me forget about that anytime soon, are you?”

“Definitely not.” She says, trying her hardest to sound serious, even as she smiles at the ridiculousness of it all.

“I didn’t go about it very well.” Fíli grimaces. “I should have spoken with you – I should have done better than just leave you with that damned document.” He lifts his head, awkwardly rubbing the nape of his neck. “Would you believe me if I said I thought I was doing the right thing?”

“Of course,” her expression softens. “I imagine you suggested it for the same reason I agreed to it. You thought I was in love with someone else.”

“Not just that.” A small furrow forms between his brows as his eyes flicker away. She pulls back a little to look at him properly and rests her hands on his shoulders. “I couldn’t sleep, the night before the Yule. You were there with me and you – you called me _love._ I let myself hope that it meant more… that it wasn’t just a slip of the tongue. But then I remembered that our marriage – it wasn’t really a marriage, it was something that Balin cooked up. I realised that if I loved you – if I _truly_ loved you – I couldn’t be selfish. I couldn’t keep you trapped in a marriage you didn’t want.”

“Oh, Fíli.” She sighs, realising what fools they had been.

“I just want you to be happy, Sigrid. Whether it is with me or someone else, I -”

She kisses his next words away, kissing him silent, while internally, she scoffs at the thought of _someone else._ As though she could ever find someone better than Fíli. She had had suitors once; letters had come flooding in in the months following the battle. All ambitious men, enticed by what her father’s title and legacy could offer them. How many of them would show her the same kindness Fíli has shown her? How many of them would have been willing to let her go, just to make her happy?

“I don’t want anyone else.” Sigrid breaths, surprised by the steel in her voice. Fíli pauses for a beat, brows lifting a fraction in surprise, before he grins against her lips. His hand tightens at her waist as his lips move across her jaw and down to her neck. Her eyes fall closed as her head tips back, her breath hitching when she feels the hint of teeth at her throat. It sends a thrill of want through her, leaving her dizzy.

“Good.” Fíli eventually says, lifting his head to look at her. “Because neither do I.”

She has to kiss him again after he says that. It cannot be helped.

“The truth is, I didn’t marry you just because it would help our people.” Fíli admits after some time has passed, lifting one hand from her face to play with a loose lock of her hair. They’re sat on the armchairs angled together in front of the fire, their knees pressed against each other. “Balin’s scheme made sense, aye, but there was more to it than that... After the battle, when I was sick with fever, I was trapped in this strange place. I thought I could hear voices sometimes but they were distorted, like I was underwater. And it was dark. So dark. And I thought, for a long time, that I was dead. But then I heard your voice.”

“I didn’t think you remembered that.” She murmurs softly, surprised.

Fíli smiles faintly, his fingers toying with the braid in her hair. “I woke up from the dark and your face was the first thing I saw. And I think, maybe, a small part of me was lost to you even then.”

She catches his hands as he starts to lower it. She turns it over, carefully tracing the shape of the scar on his palm. She remembers that day like it was yesterday. She had come so close to losing him, to never being able to know or love him. How different her life might have been. The puckered scar is faint, but remains a vivid reminder of the battle and the fate that was almost his. Her eyes burn with the threat of tears at the thought but she forces herself to smile, pushing the thought far from her mind.

“So what do we do now?” She asks and gives him a watery smile, a little overwhelmed by it all.

“I don’t know.” Fíli smiles, turning his hand over to hold hers. His hand is warm and so achingly familiar; it calms the faint tremor in her own. His expression turns sheepish when he lifts his gaze to meet hers. She thinks she spies a faint blush under his bearded cheeks. “But if you’re willing, I’d like to remain your husband. Y’know, for as long as you’ll have me.”

It’s the last thing she had expected him to say in that moment. She can’t help but laugh and quickly presses a kiss to the back of his hand in a wordless apology when he looks at her, hand on his heart, feigning hurt. Her cheeks ache from smiling, her tears forgotten.

“Ask me again?” She offers, fighting a smile.

“Sigrid,” Fíli begins, his blue eyes warm and filled with more love than she knows what to do with. “Will you -” 

And, naturally, that is when there is another loud knock at the door.

“Fíli, Sigrid.” Dara’s voice calls through the door. “I hate to interrupt, but it’s time for you both to come back. I can’t stall them any longer.”

Sigrid’s gaze flashes to the door, inwardly cursing her friend for her poor timing. She isn’t ready to face whatever music they’re about to go up against. She imagines telling them they’ve changed their minds won’t be as well received as she might have liked. While she knows Thorin and Balin will be pleased that the alliance between Dale and Erebor will continue, unchanged, she senses the other members of King Thorin’s council will be less pleased. Just as there are misgivings in Dale amongst her people about Fíli, there are those in Erebor who don’t care for their prince being married to her.

It’s fortunate, at least, that word of their meeting hasn’t spread. While the council are sworn to secrecy until the negotiations are ended, she knows that rumours would undoubtedly spread. It wouldn’t take long at all for the suitors to come flooding back, for both of them. She has to smile at the thought of all the hopeful men and Dwarrowdams they would be disappointing.

On the other side of the door, she hears Dara sigh heavily.

“You have five minutes.” The Dwarf says.  

Sensing that it’s now or never, Sigrid leans across the space between them and takes Fíli’s face in her hands.

“Ask me.” She says, needing to hear the words.

There have been enough misunderstands between them to last a lifetime. She doesn’t want there to be anymore, least of all about this. But Fíli hesitates, looking at her, for a brief moment, like he’s trying to work out whether she’s being serious or not. And that simply will not do. She gives one side of his braided moustache a slight tug in response.

“Alright, alright.” He laughs, taking hold of her hand. He gets to his feet and stands before her, his back to the quiet, crackling fire. His expression softens when he looks down at her, growing more serious. “Sigrid, my love, never in a million years will I even come close to deserving you, but can you find it in your heart to forgive me for being a fool and remain to my wife?”

“Yes.” She breathes. It’s all she needs to say.

Fíli’s arms wrap around her waist, pulling her up and off of the chair. Laughing, she throws her arms around him and hugs him with all her might. He lifts her off of her feet, spinning her around. It doesn’t make sense – how much she loves him – but it doesn’t need to. She thinks, perhaps, she could learn a thing or two from Tilda and let herself live a little with her head in the clouds. She stumbles when Fíli sets her down on her feet but he catches her, steadying her. She leans on him, hands coming to rest on his shoulders, as she catches her breath.

It’s overwhelming. Her head is spinning with it all.

It seems strange to think that only hours ago she was dreading what was waiting for her in the mountain. She had woken that morning with a heavy heart, fearing the very worst. A part of her had even entertained the notion that she had imagined him kissing her that day, and that when she confronted him about it, he would laugh in her face. It seems so very long ago now; a distant memory, as though it had been weeks and weeks, not hours, ago.

“This still doesn’t seem real,” Fíli tells her. His hand is warm and solid at the small of her back as he pulls her closer to him. “It’s too much like a dream I once had.”

“Didn’t I once say I’ll always be here if you need someone to tell you what’s real?” She reminds him, running her hands across his shoulders and down his strong arms. Every bit a soldier, she marvels at his strength. Once, she might have been frightened, repulsed even, at someone so built for war and hardship, but she knows better now. She knows she’ll always be safe if he is around, that she’ll never have to run for her life with him there to protect her and to teach her how to fend for herself.

“You did.” Fíli replies with a slow smile spreading across his face. “And what’s your verdict, my love?”

“That this is real,” she says with absolute certainty. “Very real. In fact - if this was a dream, I’d like to think Dara wouldn’t be outside, listening in.”

And Dara, of course, chooses that moment to pound on the door again.

“Your five minutes are up!” Dara calls out.

Fíli sighs heavily. “Think she’ll go away if we just ignore her?”

“Not a chance.” She replies, knowing the Dwarf all too well. Dara will drag them both back to that meeting by the ear if she has to. She glances over her shoulder when she hears the door open and sighs to herself, dreading what they’re about to face. She doubts it will be as simple as saying, _oh never mind, we’ve changed our minds._ They’ll want answers. Answers she’s not willing to give. Their private business has already been discussed enough as it is.

“I suppose we’d better get going…” She says, unable to conceal her reluctance.

But Fíli, to her surprise, shakes his head. “No, you should stay here.”

“I should?” She says, lifting one brow in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Fíli smiles crookedly. “I got us into this mess, I should be the one to get us out of it.”

“If you’re sure…” She frowns slightly, the reality sinking in. She can’t imagine it will go down well with Thorin or his councilmen if she fails to return.

“Hey.” Fíli says, drawing her attention back to him. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

“And I have your back as well.” Dara says as she steps into the room, looking between the two of them fondly. “Always.”

The Dwarf tugs her satchel off of her shoulder and sets it down on the small table beside the door. She dons a small axe instead, that she had pulled from the seemingly bottomless satchel, and thumps her armoured chest in response to Sigrid’s lifted brow. “If they try to give us any trouble.”

“Oh for goodness sake-” Sigrid begins to say, exasperated with the ridiculous carrying-on of Dwarves, but Fíli kisses the words away.

“I’ll be back soon.” He says, departing with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

When Fíli and Dara leave, looking as thick as thieves with weapons in their hands, Sigrid sinks back into her armchair, burying her head in her hands.

“ _Dwarves_.” She sighs, but deep down, no matter how much she might deny it, she can’t help but love them for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i miscalculated because i'm bad at maths. there's actually going to be two more chapters. so one more and then the epilogue. all i can say about the next chapter is that it was heavily inspired by the final scene between lizzie and mr bennet from the 2005 pride and prejudice movie ;)


	25. Chapter 25

Sigrid isn’t sure how long she sits there, staring into space, smiling like a fool, when a thought suddenly strikes her.

She glances over her shoulder, to where Dara’s satchel is sat by the front door, and twists her lips in thought. She mulls the idea over for scarcely a moment before she’s on her feet and crossing the room.

Careful not to snoop too much into her friend’s things, she pulls the pieces of paper Dara had gathered together out of the satchel and returns to her armchair.

She curls up on the armchair and tucks her feet under her legs. She sifts through the papers until she finds the one she wants - the townhouse by the Great Hall. The place she keeps coming back to.

She takes in the rough sketch of the building and the notes she and Dara had compiled. It’s not what she had been looking for. It’ll never be a good fit for a school house, but she wonders if maybe it’ll be perfect for something else. Something much different to a school house. A plan forms in her mind as she pictures what it _could be_ and a small, slow smile spreads across her face. She folds the piece of paper into quarters and tucks it into her pocket for safe keeping. The rest of the papers she gathers up and returns to Dara’s satchel.

Her gaze shifts to the door, a little unsure what to do with herself, and wills Fíli to walk back through it. It doesn’t make any sense for her to miss him, not after he’s been gone an hour _at most,_ but she does. She tuts aloud at the thought and forces herself to turn away from the door. It could be hours before he comes back. Bureaucracy takes time. She ought to go back to Dale, make herself useful, and let her father know what’s going on. She knows she _should_ go, but instead, she stays and she waits.

Eventually, she drifts over to the window, lost in thought.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, watching the valley below, before her thoughts turn to the school once more.

It isn’t just the children of Dale that need a school. Dwarven children are rare, but they still exist. She can’t remember hearing any mention of Erebor having a school and if Dwarven children were taught alongside Dale’s little ones, it could tear down barriers between their peoples before they are even built. Children don’t carry the same prejudices that their parents do. Such a thing has to be taught.

Sigrid squints, trying to figure out a way to sell the idea to her father’s council and Thorin’s. If she has Fíli’s support, Thorin and his council would be more likely to endorse her. Her father would support her, of course, but some of those stuffy councilmembers of his could prove troublesome. Her father’s council is made up of a variety of men and women, almost all are open-minded and reasonable, welcoming new ideas, but there are two sticks in the mud that always cause her trouble. If only  –

The door opens behind her and heavy footsteps enter the room.

Moments later, strong arms wrap around her waist.

“That didn’t take long.” She quips, trying her hardest to smother a smile when Fíli rests his chin on her shoulder. The rasp of his beard against her bare skin tickles.  

“Well, I have much better things to do than talk to that bunch.” Fíli murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to her shoulder. Whatever words she might have said in response are lost when she’s tugged back against his warm, solid chest. She closes her eyes and gives in, letting herself smile. The troubles of the world have never been further from her mind. And she’s _happy_ , she realises. She isn’t sure she’s _ever_ been this happy. The realisation doesn’t scare her as much as it would have not that long ago.

She considers asking him about the townhouse, wanting to know his opinion, but holds her tongue instead, choosing to keep it as a surprise. He’d surprised her so many times throughout the last year, it’s her turn now.

“Such as?” She breathes, amused. Her hands settle on his arms, fingers idly toying with his sleeve.

“Well…” He begins to say, suggestively, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

She blinks at that, growing tense. She knows he’s only teasing but she turns around, stepping out of the safe circle of his arms, unable to stop an old concern from creeping back into her thoughts. It brings her rushing back to their wedding night and all that it traditionally entailed and the overwhelming pressure she’d felt. She feels it again, the heavy feeling seeping slowly back in. She pushes against the thought, tries to get it out of her head, but it does little use. A dark little voice reminds of her the words on the annulment contract. _Official, but unconsummated._ Her eyes flicker away, not quite able to meet his gaze.

“Sigrid?” She can hear his concern, can sense it in the hesitant way that he touches her hand.

She winces, hating that she’s brought them back here, so soon, when they’d finally been happy _._ It would be best, for them both, for her to smile and insist that she’s fine. She knows she could get him to believe her. She’s done it before. But so many of the problems and misunderstandings between them have come from one of them biting their tongue, from not telling the other the whole truth. She doesn’t want to take a step back, not when they’ve come so far.

“I’m sorry.” She laughs breathlessly, nerves threatening to get the best of her. “It’s nothing, really, but I don’t… I don’t know how to say this without...”

Fíli lifts her hand to his lips, kissing the inside of her palm. The wordless gesture makes her smile, quells her nerves.

“There are…” She begins slowly, struggling to find the words. Her gaze shifts back to him as she turns her hand to hold onto his. He nods, encouraging her to continue, with concern still lingering in the crease between his brows. “There are some things I’m not ready for just yet. I know I should be – I don’t know why I – it’s just -” She groans, hanging her head. “What I’m trying to say is that…” She runs her fingers through her hair, frustrated that the right words won’t come. She sighs and peers at him through her lashes. “I’m not making any sense, am I?”

“No, you are.” Fíli replies, his eyes filled with nothing but love and understanding. He lifts his hand, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. “You don’t want to rush this. And neither do I.”

She blinks slowly, letting his words sink in.

“Oh,” is all she can manage to say.

“You sound surprised.” It isn’t a question, but the look in his eyes is. She glances up, remembering that she isn’t the only one with insecurities.

“No…” She murmurs softly, holding his gaze. “Not surprised, just… relieved, I suppose, that we’re on the same page.”

“For once.” Fíli adds, smiling faintly as his thumb rubs soothing circles over her wrist.

“Yes, for once.” She concedes as she laughs quietly to herself.

Sigrid’s gaze shifts away as she loses herself in her thoughts. It worries her, that the words _official but unconsummated_ hang over their heads. Their marriage could be still dissolved and there would be nothing she could do about it. They’ll need proof to cement it. But what kind of proof? She isn’t sure that their word would be enough. Sigrid sighs internally, shaking her head. She hates that dark little voice that whispers to her and all the doubt and the worry caused by it. She holds onto the hope that there will come a day when she doesn’t hear it anymore – or, in the very least, that she has grown better at ignoring it.

“So, Dara said you’re thinking of starting a school.” Fíli says suddenly and she blinks in surprise at the abrupt change of subject.

“Oh  - well, yes, that’s the idea, but we’ve got a long road ahead of us. I’m afraid it might be a bit of an uphill battle.” She says, brightening a little even as she grouses. She’s glad she’s finally able to talk to him about this. She wants to know his thoughts. This is important to her and she cares what he thinks about it all.

He tilts his head to one side. “How so?”

“It’s more work than I thought it would be, if I’m being honest.” Sigrid admits with a small shrug. “It seemed so simple when I was talking about it with Isolde – that young woman I told you about, who came to us about the Merchant’s Guild. But first, we’ve got to find the right building. Then work out how much it’s all going to cost. Then get the council’s permission. Then somehow convince the parents. Then find actual teachers. _And then_ we can start a school.”

“Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you.” Fíli tells her with utmost sincerity. She isn’t sure what she’s done to inspire such belief in her.

“Do you really think so?” She wishes she could be so certain.

“There is nothing you cannot do, Sigrid _._ And you know I’ll always help, in whatever way I can.”

She ducks her head, flushing a little, and focuses her attention on their entwined fingers. She doesn’t know what to do with the sudden rush of affection she feels for him. It isn’t logical, it’s the very opposite of that. This is all strange, unfamiliar territory for her. But it doesn’t scare her like it once would.

A small smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she leans down, closing the space between them. His hand rises, cupping her cheek as he stretches up to meet her half-way. It seems strange that she’d once bemoaned their height difference, she barely notices it now. His lips part against hers and she kisses him softly, slowly. There’s no need to rush. They have time to take things slow. She can’t help but smile against his lips at the thought. Her eyes flutter open as she draws away while his remain closed for a beat, his hand lingering against her cheek.

“What was that for?” He asks a little breathlessly, bemused.

She shrugs, a slow smile spreading across her face. “For believing in me.”

“Always.” He breathes and she believes him. She may not always believe in herself, but she has faith that he always will.

The tips of Fíli’s calloused fingers caress her cheek, sending a small shiver down her spine. Up close, she can see the faint mark on his nose where there had been a nasty gash only a few weeks ago. He’d looked so unlike himself then – pale and tense, with dark circles under his eyes. The warmth in his eyes seems to have chased the shadows away. She can’t see any trace of the distant, unfamiliar person he had been. She wants to make him promise that it’ll never come to that again, that they’ll always find a way to discuss their problems, but that can come later _,_ she decides. For now, she lets herself enjoy the moment.

“ _Âzyungel_.” He murmurs, the word soft and unfamiliar.

Her gaze flickers back to him, curious. “That’s a new word. What does it mean?”

“Actually, that reminds me,” Fíli smirks, dodging the question. “It’s been a while since we had our last Khudzul lesson. Maybe I’ll let you know what it means at our next one.”

Sigrid tilts her head to one side, pursing her lips. “Or you could just tell me now.”

But Fíli just shakes his head. Of course, that would be too easy. But deep down, she doesn’t mind. She thinks she has an idea what it might means. The way he said the word told her all she needed to know. And he’d had the same look in his eyes as when he told her he loved her. The same look she’s seen a hundred times and never been able to truly understand until now. Sigrid feels a small smile tug at her lips and lifts her hand to brush a stray strand of hair away from his face, her fingers brushing against the golden clasp in his hair.

She leans her forehead against his, smiling at the feel of his hands settling on her hips. She’d been cold before, even when she was sat in front of the fireplace, but anymore. He’s warm. Steady. And in his arms, she doesn’t have to worry. It’s a feeling she’s never really had before.

She isn’t sure she’ll ever be the type to be able to eloquently describe how she feels, but for now –

“I love you,” she says. And it’s enough.

She feels him smile against her lips. “I love you, too.”

There’s a knock at the door a moment later. It doesn’t really come as a surprise, even though it should. They don’t spring apart as they had done before, rather his hands tighten on her hips and refuse to let her go. She laughs, unable to help it, and glances in the direction of the door, wondering who it could be. It’s unlikely to be Dara. Oin had placed her on convalescent leave, so it wouldn’t be anyone from the healing wing. Meaning whoever it is, they’re probably looking for Fíli, not her.

Her theory is confirmed when there’s a knock again, followed by Kíli’s voice.

“Fee, if you’re in there, Mum knows.” Kíli calls out from the other side of the door. “I told her you’d be busy, _y’know -”_

She thinks she hears him clicking his tongue and Fíli draws away to scowl in his brother’s direction.

“Get to the point, Kee.” He calls back.

“Hey! I’m just the messenger.” Kíli protests, affronted. “Mum wants to have dinner later. The whole family. Said she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Sigrid can’t help but smile at the look on Fíli’s face. When he doesn’t answer his brother right away, her brows lift questioningly, and he rolls his eyes.

“When?” Fíli asks, his eyes never leaving her face. The look he gives her makes her flush. She bites her lip and averts her gaze to the closed door. As if in response, one of Fíli’s hands slides around her to the small of her back, pulling her closer. It’s distracting. It makes her almost miss what Kíli says next.

“Must we have this conversation through a closed door? People are looking.”

“People?” Fíli scoffs to himself. “What people?”

Sigrid steps out of his grip before she lets herself get distracted again, gesturing for him to go talk to his brother. The look he shoots her - wide eyed with a slight pout – should be ridiculous, not endearing. But it is. It makes her laugh before she can stop herself. And she wonders if, maybe, with a fond shake of her head, she’s just a little bit biased when it comes to him. She turns away before she gives in and sinks back into his arms, wandering into her bedroom in search of a coat.

She can hear Fíli and Kíli’s muffled voices as she looks through her wardrobe, but doesn’t pay much attention to what they’re saying. She’s tempted to trade her dress entirely for something warmer but decides against it. Eventually, she finds a coat with a thick fur collar and drags it on over her dress. As she turns to leave the room, she catches sight of her reflection in the mirror at her vanity table and hesitates. Her cheeks are still flushed and her hair is far messier than it had been before. She quickly drags a brush through her long hair and plaits it loosely to one side in an attempt to look somewhat presentable.

“Alright, alright, tell her I’ll be there.” She hears Fíli say as she steps out of her room.

“Wonderful. I’ll be going then.” She hears Kíli snort and then he calls out something in Khudzul that she doesn’t understand. But, judging by the way that Fíli ducks his head, his cheeks growing a little red, she has an idea what might have been said. She almost asks, but then she laughs to herself, deciding that she doesn’t want to know.

And then the door closes, leaving the two alone once more.

Fíli’s brows lift a fraction when he turns and catches sight of her. “Going somewhere?”

“’Fraid so.” She says as she crosses the room, winding a scarf around her neck. “I need to go back to Dale, let my Da knows what’s happened. Also, Bain made a few colourful threats towards you this morning so I ought to let him know that that won’t be necessary.”

“I see.” Fíli hums, feigning seriousness. “And is this a solo mission or am I allowed to join you?”

She grins and holds out her hand in response.

The walk through the mountain and along the road to Dale is one they’ve taken dozens of times. There’s nothing new or special about it, but it’s still different. Wherein before she had always felt like they were playing a part, for the sake of her people and his own, she knows now that it’s real. He’s holding her hand and looking at her every now and again, when he thinks she isn’t looking, because he wants to, because he loves her, not for the sake of appearances. She sneaks a glance at him and smiles when she meets his gaze. She leans into his side, not needing to make excuses to herself any longer that it’s because she’s cold or pretend that it’s an accident.

The cloudy sky and promise of rain has left both the road and the city quiet. Most people have the good sense to stay indoors. Therefore there’s no one there to witness when, after several long minutes of talking about nothing of consequence, she stops in her tracks in the middle of the street and kisses him simply because she _can._

Kissing him in Dale, a stone’s throw away from her home, makes up for that disastrous night after the Yuletide party. She thinks she might be able to look at mistletoe again now without wanting to stomp it into the ground.

She draws back with a small, satisfied smile and continues along the road as though nothing had happened. It takes a beat for him to follow. It gives her a small thrill of pride seeing the slightly dazed look on his face, knowing she’d been the one to put it there. She decides that next year, bad luck be damned, that he’ll be the only person she kisses under the mistletoe - to make up for lost opportunities and chase away any bitter, mortifying memories of rejection and mistletoe she might have left.

“I wanted you to kiss me, you know, after the Yuletide party.” She says and glances across at him, no longer feeling embarrassed about what happened, merely curious. “But you walked away. Why?”

“Not one of my finest moments, I’ll admit.” Fíli grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to…” She begins to say, trailing off when he shakes his head.

“No, I do. And you deserve to know why.” He says, sighing heavily before he continues. “This will probably sound stupid but I… I didn’t want our first kiss to be because of some tradition. I saw the way you reacted whenever you were caught under it and I was a coward, I couldn’t bear the thought of you reacting the same with me.”

Sigrid stops, a little taken aback by his confession. It’s not what she had expected to hear. But after hearing it, and knowing what had been going through his head at the time, it makes sense. She takes in the unguarded, rueful expression on his face and feels a stab of guilt. She almost apologies for bringing it up in the first place but holds her tongue. She needed to know.

“Thank you for telling me.” She murmurs, her voice soft.

Fíli nods, looking a little embarrassed, and gestures for them to continue along the road. She almost asks why he’d chosen to have their first kiss be in the middle of an argument but decides to leave that question for another time. She lifts their joined hands as they walk the few short feet to her house and kisses the back of his palm. Fíli glances back at her and after a beat, squeezes her hand in response, his lips twitching in a faint smile.

With Bain training and Tilda off with Dara, the house is quiet when they arrive.

Sigrid lets go of Fíli’s hand to hang up her coat and step out of her muddy boots. Fíli does the same, shedding his big clunky boots, and she smiles at the sight of his knitted blue socks. A gift from Ori, no doubt. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him without his boots. The realisation nearly makes her laugh. She forces herself to look away when he notices her looking and unwinds her scarf, smiling to herself.

She takes his hand again before she heads off in the direction of her father’s study, tugging him along with her.

As always, the door to her father’s study is open. She peers her head in, catching sight of him sat at his desk, pouring over some documents. He looks tired, likely hasn’t even eaten yet. Fíli, she notices, looks a little pale as he takes in the frown on her father’s face. With a small, encouraging smile, she squeezes Fíli’s hand before she knocks on the door. Bard looks up at the sound, the lines on his forehead smoothing out when he sees her.

His smile quickly dims at the sight of Fíli stood beside her.

“Sigrid,” he frowns. “What’s the meaning of this? Why are you -?”

“It’s alright, Da.” She smiles, swinging her arm slightly to emphasis their joined hands. Bard blinks, noticing, and looks between the two with his eyes narrowing in a mix of suspicion and confusion. “We didn’t go through with it.”

Bard leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with you alone for a moment, Sigrid.”

Sigrid sighs quietly. She’d expected that. So had Fíli. He nods, squeezing her hand once more before he releases it. She watches him go, her smile faltering slightly when the door closes behind him, feeling a little disappointed. She had hoped that they could do this together. She turns back to her father, takes in his confusion, and sits down at one of the chairs in front of his desk. She isn’t nervous, she doesn’t _need_ his permission or his blessing, but she does care what he thinks. She wants him to approve of her choice. She sets her hands down on her lap, fiddling with a loose thread on her skirts.

“Sigrid…” Bard begins, sighing. He leans forward to rest his elbows on the edge of his desk and runs his hand down his weary face. “I don’t understand, love. You seemed so sure this morning. I thought this was what you wanted, to be free of the marriage. What changed?”

“I was so blind, Da.” Sigrid says, smiling to herself. “We both were.”

“I don’t understand.” He says again, his eyes searching her face like he might find the answer there.

“He did it for me. The annulment.” She tells him, her gaze falling to her lap as she twists her ring around her finger. “He was a fool, he should have talked to me about it first but he – he thought… he thought it was what I wanted, that I was in love with someone else. He was prepared to let me go, even though it would ruin the relations between our people and break his heart. All in the hope that it would make me happy.”

She ducks her head, still reeling from it. It seems like a dream; the thought of him actually loving her back is too good to be true. They’d both entered into the marriage seeing it more as an arrangement, as a façade to appease their two peoples. She hadn’t expected to find love there, a familiarity over time, perhaps, but not love. If someone had told her this was where she would end up, all those months ago, she wouldn’t have believed them.

“He was a fool.” She says again, unable to keep the smile from her face. “But so was I.”

Bard’s elbows nearly slip from the desk as he straightens. His expression is difficult to read. But she knows him well enough to know that he isn’t angry. He stares at her for a long moment, looking a little dazed, before he slowly gets to his feet. She doesn’t know what to expect when he rounds the desk. But then he places one hand on her shoulder, his expression softening.

“Do you love him?” He asks with a hint of a smile on his once weary face.

“I do,” she breathes. She doesn’t need to think about it. It isn’t a question she has to mull over. “I really do.”

“I never thought…” Bard begins to say, quietly chuckling to himself. He squeezes her shoulder, his smile growing fond before he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I never thought I’d see this day. My dear, darling Sigrid, what happened to being too sensible to fall in love?”

Sigrid ducks her head, feeling her cheeks grow warm. She had almost forgotten she’d said that, all those years ago, and how strongly she had felt about it. She had been so naïve, and maybe even a little cynical. Once, she had thought she was stronger alone. She hadn’t needed anyone but her family. If she was alone, she wouldn’t be abandoned or disappointed. The idea of her happiness depending entirely on one person was a terrifying thought. And it still is.

“I don’t know, Da.” She admits, tilting her head back to look at him. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Never in my wildest dreams did I think… I didn’t even know how I truly felt about him until he gave me those wretched divorce papers. And even then I tried to convince myself otherwise.”

Bard lifts his hand from her shoulder to touch her cheek. “But you’re certain now – about what you feel?”

Sigrid hasn’t truly been certain of anything, not since the night her home went up in flames. Everything she had ever known had changed – her life, her position, her future. Everything. And she had been lost, struggling to keep up with all the changes. She still isn’t certain. She’s still learning how to be the person her people expect her to be and she’s still struggling to find her place, but she knows she loves Fíli. He is the one thing in her life that she is truly certain about.

“There’s no doubt in my mind.”

Bard leans back, laughing quietly again, and she thinks she sees the slightest shimmer of tears in his eyes. Feeling the sting of tears in her own eyes, she jolts to her feet and wraps her arms around him. Bard makes a pained sound, pretending as though she’d knocked the air out of him, before he returns the hug, holding her tightly.

“If only your mother was here… She’d so proud, love.” Bard murmurs softly, with the same sad note that is always there when talks about her mother. Sigrid nods against his shoulder, smiling a watery smile.

When she draws back, they’re both wiping tears away with the backs of their hands.

“Alright,” Bard laughs, pressing one final kiss to the top of her hair. “Send Fíli in. I’d like to have a talk with my son-in-law.”

Sigrid clasps her hands together, feeling an odd sort of thrill. Bard has never called Fíli that before. It feels like a step in the right direction. She smiles, secretly pleased, and nods before she turns away. She leaves the room smiling brightly with her father leaned against his desk, still laughing quietly to himself.

She finds Fíli stood at the backdoor, looking out over the garden. She wraps her arms around him from behind, as he had done earlier, and rests her chin on the top of his head. Fíli huffs out a small laugh and lays his hands over the tops of hers. Life in the garden is creeping back; a surprise after so many weeks buried under heavy snow. The ground is covered with bright little shoots of grass while the vines that spread across the stone walls are starting to show colour again. She hopes it won’t be long until the flowers start to bloom. She hopes they’ll return around the same time Bilbo does. The garden could use a Hobbit’s touch. And she could do with his company; she had come to see them as friends in the short time that she had known him.

“How’d it go?” Fíli asks, turning her arms.

“It went well.” She grins, twining her arms around his neck. In truth, she hadn’t really known what to expect. Her father had always been against the marriage, but respected her choice to go through with it. Her smile softens, imagining what her mother might think of it all. The Dwarves had always been funny little creatures in her stories, greedy, selfish, and uncaring. Entirely different to the Dwarf stood in front of her. “Although, he wants to talk to you about something. I wouldn’t worry though.”

“Oh, aye.” Fíli drawls, lifting his brows. “He probably just wants a chat, not to threaten me with his bow or anything.”

“He’s not going to threaten you, Fíli.” She laughs and he snorts, looking unconvinced. “Besides, he doesn’t keep weapons in his study.”

Fíli starts to protest and she quickly moves, kissing the words away. The distraction works just as she’d hoped. All talk of her father ceases. His hands are soon in her hair as he moves his head slightly to one side, deepening the kiss. She doesn’t realise she’s moving until her back hits the wall behind her. She feels the slightest hint of teeth against her lower lip and she shivers in a way which has nothing to do with the cold. Her fingers curl around the hair at the nape of his neck, where it’s tied back by a strip of leather, and she tugs on it instinctively, enjoying the low sound that escapes his throat.

There’s a knock at the front door before the kiss can go any further. It startles them both.

“I should – I should get that.” Her voice comes out breathier than she intended and Fíli nods, his lips scarcely an inch away from hers.

Her fingers reluctantly slip from his hair and a huff of disappointment escapes her lips when he takes a step back, away from her. The sight of his lips, reddened from their kissing, makes her seriously reconsider answering the door. Fíli seems to notice her reluctance, looking her over with a devilish grin. She departs with a small sigh, before she can get distracted again. Whoever it is at the door, she thinks as she makes her way through the house, better have a good reason for turning up unannounced.

Sigrid pauses before she answers the door. She smooths the creases from the front of her dress and tucks a strand of hair that had come loose behind her ear. She thinks she hears Fíli moving through the house, headed in the direction of her father’s study. She wants to follow, to hear what Bard has to say, but whoever it waiting knocks again. Plastering on a polite smile, she opens the door.

Her smile quickly fades at the sight of Gared stood on the doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” She says in way of greeting, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I need to talk to you.” Gared says, jolting forwards, his hands reaching for her. She backs up a step instinctively and his eyes grow wide, pleading. “Please, Sig’. I’ve been coming here every day for _weeks_ but they kept saying you were out. I don’t know what I did, or said, to upset you but-”

With a heavy sigh, she closes the door behind her and steps out onto the front step, not wanting Fíli or her father to overhear their conversation.

“You have a child, Gared.” Sigrid tells him, her gaze hard. “A child you _left.”_

His hand shoots out, grasping her forearm. “I can explain -”

“Can you?” She barks out a humourless laugh, all traces of the mirth she had felt only moments ago leaving her. All she can think about is the letter and the poor girl in Bree who had been desperate enough to write it. She tries to shake his hand off of her arm but his grip is too tight. “Can you explain why you got a girl pregnant and didn’t marry her? Can you explain why you left her all alone? Because I don’t understand, Gared. The boy I once knew wouldn’t be capable of that.”

“Sig’.” Gared sighs, lifting his hand off of her arm to bury both his hands in his hair. He squeezes his eyes closed and half-turns away from her, swearing under his breath. “She knew. She knew from the beginning that I wasn’t going love her – wasn’t going to marry her. She said she didn’t care. It was just a bit of fun. Then suddenly she’s pregnant and wants me to bring her here and I – I couldn’t have that. But it’s not like I just – you have to believe me, I told her I’d send money but she wouldn’t take it.”

“Why not?” Sigrid’s lips twist to one side in thought. “In her letter she sounded desperate. She said she was practically a beggar.”

“That’s not what she told me.” He mumbles, hanging his head. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look so defeated. She almost feels sorry for him. “You know me, you know I’d never – I’ll send her every coin I ever earn but I don’t want her here. I don’t want her – or the child.”

Sigrid’s eyes narrow. “She’s an unmarried mother, your child is a bastard. Even with whatever money you send, what kind of life do you imagine they’ll have without you?”

“What kind of life do you think they’ll have with me?” Gared counters and lifts his head. He looks at her at long last with the same stricken look she’d seen on his face after losing his brothers. As angry as she is with him, her first instinct is still to comfort him, her oldest friend. “I can’t be someone’s husband – someone’s _father –_ I’m…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I’m not who I was. And if she comes here, if I marry her, I’ll never leave. I guess – I guess I just thought we’d escape this place, y’know? Like we always talked about. Just you and me.”

“Gared…” Sigrid sighs, feeling cold all of a sudden. She hugs her elbows, uncomfortable, and glances wistfully over her shoulder at the house. It’s warm in there. She should have stayed inside, with Fíli, and ignored the door. Gared would have gotten the hint eventually.  “You’ve got to stop this -”

“Do you want to know why Livia wrote to you?” He asks, cutting her off. She huffs, leaning back against the front door. She doesn’t want to know but she doubts she has much choice. He’ll tell her whether she likes it or not. “Because after too many drinks one night, I told her about you. I told her everything. She knows how I feel. She _knows_ what you mean to me. _That’s_ why she wrote to you, to ruin what we have, to get back at me – to hurt me –”

“Gared.” Sigrid says again, firmer than before to catch his attention. She needs to know that he’s listening to her. She doesn’t want to have to say this ever again. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself before she continues. “You’re my oldest friend and I love you, but not in the way that you want. You’re holding onto something that doesn’t exist. I’ve changed. We both have.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” he tells her. He takes a step forward, touching her arm again. “You’re going to say that you’re stuck here, that you’re married – but you don’t want this life. You don’t want to be a lady, puttin’ on airs, pretending you’re better than people you’ve known all your life. You don’t want to be married to someone you don’t love, you don’t want to trapped in the same place your whole life – I know you, Sig’, I know you better than anyone.”

“No, you don’t.” She says slowly, something she never thought could be true. He was _Gared_ , she’d known him her whole life. There was no secret or story that he didn’t know about her. He’d been there through everything. All her life, he had been by her side, through thick and thin. But then he had left. He left, and in that time she had changed. He didn’t know her anymore, not like he used to. “We’re not children anymore. I’m different. And so are you.”

She lays her hand over his for a brief moment, squeezing it before she pulls it off of her arm. “This is my home. This is where I belong.”

“I thought Laketown was your home.” The words are spoken harshly, almost accusatory.

“It was, but that home is lost.” She says and his eyes narrow in disbelief, emphasising the scars around his eye. “I’m tired of living in the past, Gared. It hurts too much, trying to hold onto what I no longer have. I’ve got to look ahead. My future is here, with my family, with Fíli. You have family here, friends, people who love you. This could be your home too, if you let it.”

“And what about Livia and the baby?”

“I can’t tell you what to do, Gared. All I ask is that you do the right thing.”

“Yeah.” Gared sighs resignedly, hanging his head once more. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Sig’. I’ll do the right thing, I promise.”

Sigrid’s expression softens. “I know you will.”

She doesn’t know that she does, but she decides to take a page from Fíli’s book. She tries to have to faith. The words seem to ring true enough because Gared lifts his head and smiles faintly. Sigrid drops her gaze to the floor, unsure what else to say. She’s disappointed in him, and a little angry still, and ready for this conversation to end.

The door opens behind her, saving her from having to find something more to say.

“Everything alright?” Fíli wraps his arm possessively around her waist, sparing Gared only the briefest of glances. His blue eyes are hard to read, but there is a flicker of something in his face. It can’t be jealousy, he should know better than that. She nods, deciding to keep the question for another time, and leans into his side, soaking up his warmth. Fíli smiles slightly before he turns his attention to Gared. “And how are you, Gared? Doing well, I hope?”

“Yeah.” Gared mumbles, clenching his jaw. “I’m good. Yourself?”

“Couldn’t be better.” Fíli, the smug bastard, grins. It takes all of Sigrid’s willpower not to roll her eyes.

“Right.” Gared says, looking away from the two of them in obvious discomfort. “I’d – uh – better be going. It was good seeing you, Sig’.”

“Yeah, you too.” She mutters, forcing a polite smile onto her lips. “Say hello to your Ma and Da for me.”

Gared nods his head once, gaze fixed firmly on the ground. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and turns away, sighing under his breath. Her lips twist ruefully as she watches him go. Things have never been so strained between them, they’ve never had an argument that lasted more than a day. In the end though, no matter what the future brings, he’ll always be her friend, and she will forgive him eventually, but not yet. She needs time.

Once he’s turned the corner at the end of the street and is out of sight, her attention shifts to Fíli.

She arches one brow. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Fíli says, his eyes wide, feigning innocence.

“You know what.” She chides, though she’s more amused than annoyed. It’s only when his arm drops from her waist and she gives him a once over that she notices that he’s wearing his boots and coat again. Her smile falters and her brows draw together slightly at the prospect of him leaving so soon. “Are you leaving?”

“Aye, back to the mountain. Mum’s decided to cook for the big family dinner tonight and I figured she might need a hand.”

She pushes a smile onto her lips to hide her disappointment. “Oh, I see.”

The corner of his lip twitches and he holds out his hand.

“Come with me?”

Sigrid looks at his hand and presses her lips together, hesitating. She wants to go with him. She doesn’t want to have to watch him walk away, even if it’s just for a little bit – likely not even a full day – before he comes back. She wants to spend every moment she can with him to make up for lost time. Yet, at the same time, she doesn’t want to intrude where she isn’t welcome. She likes Dís, she wants her mother-in-law to like her, and knows pushing her way into a family dinner isn’t the best way to go about it.

“No, I probably shouldn’t.” She sighs, her mind made up. “It’s a family dinner, I’m not - I wouldn’t be -”

“Sigrid.” Fíli says, his voice soft. His blue eyes search her face, fond, and filled with warmth. If ever there comes a time that she doubts his words, doubts his love for her, she’ll always be able to find the truth in his eyes. It nearly makes her flush, seeing the depth of his feelings written so clearly on his face. “ _Âzyungel_ , you are family.”

Sigrid ducks her head, a slow, sappy smile spreading across her face. If she hadn’t loved him before, that would have done the trick.

She lifts her head, smiling so much it almost hurts, and takes his outstretched hand.

They walk back to the mountain hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i'm crazy tired so i probably missed a bunch of mistakes when i was going through this. if you spot any please let me know.
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and i'm sorry for the long wait, school and exams really sucked up all my time these last couple of months. 
> 
> i hope you guys have a happy and safe christmas and new year. we're almost at the end now, just the epilogue to go! <3 <3


	26. Epilogue

“It’s nothing really. Just a scratch, m’lady.”

Needle in hand, Sigrid pauses.

She glances up from her work and peers at the lad through her lashes. How many times has she heard that over the past few months? She has to wonder. A dozen times? Possibly more? The words most often came from her husband and his foolhardy brother. The latter spouting off to keep his ego in check while the former – _foolishly –_ believes the words will stop her from worrying. She barely resists the urge to roll her eyes at the thought of them, though there’s an underlying fondness there that she cannot deny.

“If you say so.” Sigrid replies, resuming her work. Though she wouldn’t exactly call it a scratch, the wound isn’t even the worst she had seen that morning. A new batch of recruits to Dale’s city guard always means a busy morning in the otherwise quiet house of healing.

“Doesn’t even hurt.” Her patient says, mustering as much bravado as a fourteen year old boy could. Pressing her lips together to keep from smiling, Sigrid lets her gaze flicker briefly to his face, watching as he tries valiantly not to wince. “M’lady…” He begins, sounding unsure. He clenches his jaw when her needle passes through torn flesh again, squeezing his eyes closed. “Can I ask you a question?”

Sigrid hums in response, but doesn’t look up from her work. The lad shifts, grimacing as he looks down at what she’s doing for the first time. The slightest smirk touches her face at how pale he grows. It had taken her a long time to be able to stomach sewing up an open wound. She’s proud of how far she has come. It’s like embroidery, only a little less pleasant and a lot more bloody. She ties off the stitching when she is finished and sets the needle aside to be resterilised.

“You can put your shirt back on now.” Sigrid says as she gets to her feet, pushing her small wooden stool aside with her foot. The boy flushes, fumbling clumsily with his shirt in his haste to put it back on.

She turns away to wash the blood from her hands, allowing a small yawn to escape her lips. She leans her hip against the stone countertop as she dries her hands with the rag hanging from her skirt pocket, ready for a cup of tea or something stronger. The smell of whatever incense Arthos, the new apprentice, had been burning that morning still hangs heavily in the air. It’s a heady scent, bought off of one of the merchant’s from the Harad. It makes her head ache.

It’s only once she’s packed her tools away that she remembers the lad’s question.

“Sorry,” she says, turning back to him. “What were you going to ask?”

“Oh.” The lad snuffles his feet, looking preoccupied with examining the bruises blossoming along his arm. She glances over her shoulder, wondering where she had put the cream that would help with that. Arthos had it last, when the young man he was sweet on had come in about a strained ankle. “I was wondering… Is – is it true that the Halfling is coming back? My little brother is in Miss Isolde’s class, you see, and he said he heard you talking about it with her. He’d be over the moon, if it’s true. It’s stupid, I know, but he thinks Halflings grant wishes.”

Sigrid’s lips twitch. “Who says they don’t?”

The lad’s eyes flicker to her, brightening with barely concealed excitement. He tries to smother it, of course, and cocks his head to one side, adopting a dubious expression that doesn’t fool her for a second.

“Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense, my lady.”

Sigrid merely hums, smiling to herself. Hobbits may not be creatures from fairy stories, like the young children in Isolde’s class like to believe, but she knows of a certain Dwarf whose wishes are about to be fulfilled. They’d been trying to keep the news quiet, upon Bilbo’s request, but it’s a poorly kept secret if even the children in Isolde’s class have been talking about it. Thorin would have thrown the Hobbit a parade and a week of celebration if he could but the Hobbit had insisted, in his letters, that he didn’t want to make a _fuss -_ something Sigrid understands completely, unlike her husband and his brother.

“So it’s true?” The lad seems to read something into her silence, his lips curving into a wide, hopeful smile. “He’s coming back for Prince Kíli’s wedding?”

“Why? Are you hoping he’ll grant you a wish?” Sigrid asks, amused, as she busies herself with filling a pot with water and setting it on the stove to boil. She glances over her shoulder, unable to help herself. “What would you wish for?”

“I don’t know.” He fibs, shuffling his feet with increasingly reddening ears. “What about you, my lady?”

Sigrid pauses. What _would_ she wish for, if such a thing were possible? She wouldn’t have had to think hard about it once upon a time. In their cramped little house in Laketown, when the Master’s taxes left them with nothing and her father worked night and day to keep them from starving, she wouldn’t have had to think for a single second. She would have wished for riches, the Master gone, a roof above her head, and anything – _anything_ that would keep her family safe. She doesn’t have to wish for that anymore.

She has everything she could ever need. So the question is not what she needs, but what does she _want?_

As if on cue, she spots Fíli through the window, walking down the street towards the clinic.

She glances at the clock then back at him and smiles. As always, he’s exactly on time. He looks up, as if sensing her gaze, and after a beat, spots her standing at the window. He lifts his hand, shielding his eyes from the midday sun, and grins. It’s been months but she still feels a small thrill whenever she sees him. Her heart still stumbles whenever he looks at her and smiles. She’ll never have to wish for happiness if her heart remains as filled with love as it is in that moment, and every moment they are together.

She drops her tools into the water bubbling on the stove and turns away from the window, smiling to herself. She unties her apron from around her waist and hangs it up. She glances at the clock again, doubling checking the time. Arthos and the head healer should have returned already to relieve her. Though – she thinks as she looks around the quiet, near empty clinic – they aren’t exactly needed at the time being. The chaos from the morning seems to have quieted down.

“M’lady?”

She glances up at the lad’s prompting, realising she had never asked his question.

“I don’t know either.” She admits, shrugging. “I suppose I’d wish for the usual things – a long summer, no war, _definitely_ no dragons – that sort of thing.”

He snorts. “No more dragons? How’s King Bard going to get another statue if there’s no more dragons?”

“I’m sure he’ll think of something.” Fíli says from where he’s stood, leaning against the doorway to the clinic with his arms crossed over his chest. Strange, she hadn’t even heard the door opening. Her smile warms at the sight of him and the teasing glint in his eyes softens when his gaze shifts to her. For a moment, they simply look at each other, taking the other in, as if they had not seen each other mere hours before.

She’s the first to look away, her cheeks warming as the look in his eyes reminds her of their morning. She had been woken up in the most… _pleasant_ of ways. The direction her thoughts have taken must show on her face because Fíli smirks.

“Prince Fíli!” The lad nearly trips over his own feet in his excitement, bounding over to Fíli with his hand outstretched. “I’m Tommy, m’lord.” He says, vigorously shaking Fíli’s hand. “I saw you fight at the spring tourney, m’lord. Won a lot of coin betting on you. Will you be competing in the midsummer competition, m’lord?”

“Aye,” Fíli grins and claps the lad on his shoulder when he finally stops shaking his hand. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He meets Sigrid’s gaze over the lad’s shoulder and she rolls her eyes. While the last tournament hadn’t ended up like the first, with him scaring her half to death by being knocked unconscious, he’d still wound up nursing a broken nose and two cracked ribs. He’d written that off as _just a scratch_ as well. It had taken weeks for his ribs to heal. For the first few days he’d been practically bedridden, she’d had to help him eat and dress. He’d enjoyed it far too much.

“You ready to go, love?” Fíli calls over the lad’s shoulder and she feels her momentary frustration melt away. When she nods, he grins and turns his attention back to Tommy. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Tommy. Maybe I’ll see you at the next tourney. Hopefully we won’t end up here, though.”

“Hopefully.” Sigrid grumbles, but there’s still a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, giving her away. “Come back in a few days, Tommy, and I’ll check on how those stitches are doing. Do try and take it easy. No sparring for at least a week – healer’s orders.”

“Aye, my lady. And thanks again.” The lad says and ducks around Fíli, leaving the two alone in the now empty clinic.

“Nice lad.” Fíli says offhandedly and she hums absently in agreement, her thoughts elsewhere. He looks back at her and sees something on her face that makes his brows lift a fraction. “Hm. A penny for your thoughts, love?”

Sigrid just smiles and shakes her head.

“Alright, you keep your secrets.” Fíli says, amused, and glances at the clock behind her. “So, where to? Bombur’s cooking up a storm for the party, if you wanted to have lunch in the mountain. I’m sure he wouldn’t notice if a pie or two went missing. Or we could get out of the city, have a picnic. It’s a nice day for it.”

“Actually, I already have something planned. But don’t ask me what it is. It’s a secret.” A secret she’s somehow, miraculously, been able to keep for months. Dara had almost let it slip a few times, Tilda as well. She hadn’t actually expected them to be able to keep their mouths closed. And yet, here they are. Fíli is still in the dark. Somehow.

“Oh?”

He looks back at her, grinning, and her heart seems to trip over itself. Even now, over half a year since they’d finally told each other their feelings, he has that effect on her. She skips over to him, not bothering to hide how happy she is to see him, as she might have done once, and wraps her arms around his neck. He tilts his head back to look at her, his blue eyes bright and filled with nothing but love. She doesn’t need a penny for his thoughts, never will, not when it’s written so clearly on his face. He turns his head with a soft, contented rumble escaping his lips, and nuzzles her cheek with his nose.

She shivers and Fíli’s arms slide around her waist, drawing her closer. The world always seems quieter in his arms. She listens to the steady beating of his heart and knows she will never be more safe, more loved than she is in that moment. His broad palm presses against the small of her back while the other slides up to her shoulder blades, his fingers toying idly with the end of her braid.

“I missed you.” He murmurs, his breath hot against her neck.

She kisses him softly, smiling uncontrollably against his lips.

“It’s only been a few hours, Fíli.” She laughs quietly when she draws away.

He draws back a fraction, quirking his brow. “So?”

“Yes, well… Alright, I missed you too.” She concedes, and she feels him smile against her neck. She closes her eyes as her thoughts stray to the question Tommy had posed. She thinks… if she had one wish, it would be to feel this way forever. Hobbits may not grant wishes, but maybe Dwarves that climb out of toilets really do bring you luck. “Come on,” she says, kissing his cheek before she pulls away. “We should get going.”

“Lead the way then, my lady.” Fíli says, holding the door open for her.

Their hands find each other instinctively as they leave the clinic, their fingers tangling together.

It’s a warm day, there isn’t a single cloud in the sky, but there’s a gentle breeze drifting through the quiet streets of Dale. The markets are closed and the midday sun has chased most indoors, leaving them mostly alone as they navigate the cobblestone streets. The few people they see smile at them as they pass. They’re a familiar sight now, the Lady of Dale and her Dwarf husband. They don’t get as many stares as they used to, and even fewer glares. Those who cared enough to still be angry, after all this time, like Evette and some of the others from her ridiculous guild, had moved on and found some other city to bother with their presence. Sigrid can’t say she misses them.

Decorations are already going up in preparation for the midsummer festivities; it won’t be long before banners are strewn across the streets, with ribbons and flowers adorning every available surface. It will be their first proper midsummer festival, free from the cloud of grief and desperation that hung over them in the years before. She’s excited to share it with Fíli. Dwarves don’t celebrate the midsummer the same way her people do.

“I saw Livia and little Davin on my way to the clinic.” Fíli tells her, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

“Oh?” Her eyebrows lift, curious.

“I can’t believe how big he’s gotten. He was _walking_. It feels like only yesterday he could barely lift his own head.” Fíli says, looking across at her with wide eyes. Her lips twitch with barely concealed amusement at his expression. “Is that normal?”

“Yes, Fíli, that’s normal. Babies grow. That’s what they do.” She replies, laughing quietly to herself. If she’s honest, it feels like only yesterday to her as well. It had been a shock when Gared’s son and his mother arrived in Dale. Deep down, she hadn’t been sure he would do the right thing, let alone for the young woman to travel the long distance with an infant. Sigrid had been unsure of Livia at first, and felt undeniably awkward whenever the young woman asked her for advice about Gared, but she’s grown used to her. She wouldn’t call them friends, not yet, at least. But in time, perhaps.

“Not many babies knocking around Ered Luin.” Fíli shrugs. “So I wouldn’t really know.”

“Well, you’ll be seeing plenty more of them soon. There’s a lot of pregnant women in Dale at the moment. I suppose there wasn’t much to do during the winter months for those who weren’t sick but – well… you know.” She trails off with small chuckle, her cheeks growing warm. Beside her, Fíli snorts.

“So when do they start talking?” He asks instead of teasing her. “‘Cause I think that’s what Livia was trying to do.”

“You think?”

“Well, she kept pointing at things and saying what they were really slowly. Pointed right at me and said _beard._ No ‘hello’ or anything. I mean - is that all I am to you people? A walking, talking beard?” Fíli says with feigned outrage and she looks across at him for a long moment, eyeing his beard like she’s having to really think hard about it. She pictures a beard with legs and it makes her laugh. The mental image actually reminds her of someone she had seen in Dain’s delegation from the Iron Hills.

“It could have been worse.” Sigrid quips, nudging him in the side with her elbow. “She could have called you short.”

Fíli slaps his free hand over his heart, his mouth falling open. “Insulted by my own wife! On today, of all days!”

“Don’t worry.” Sigrid says, smiling when she looks ahead and sees where they are. “I’m about to make it up to you. Now close your eyes, please.”

“Close my – what for?” Not trusting him not to peek, Sigrid lets go of his hand and steps behind him. She puts her hands over his eyes and nudges him forward with her shoulder. Fíli does what he’s told, more curious than he lets on. They cross the courtyard like that, earning an amused grin from Percy, who spots them on his way into the Great Hall.

She’s nervous. It’s silly, she knows, but there’s a flurry of nerves in the pit of her stomach that only seems to grow the closer they walk towards their destination. She’s been picturing this moment for months, wondering how she would go about telling him. Tilda and Dara had been full of ideas but, helpful as they may have been, none of them had felt right. She hadn’t wanted to make a spectacle of it. She didn’t want to share the moment with anyone but Fíli.

Sigrid stops when they reach the door. She drags in a deep breath before she takes one hand off of Fíli’s face and opens the door.

“You can open your eyes now.” She murmurs, letting her hand fall to his shoulder. Fíli opens his eyes and looks around with confusion written clearly on his face. He takes a step inside and she follows, closing the door behind them. “This used to belong to Lord Girion’s sister. A long, long time ago. No one claimed it after the battle, everyone just assumed it would stay in the family. I didn’t even know about it, not until it was offered to me as a possible schoolhouse. It’s ours now.”

Fíli blinks. It takes a moment for the words to settle in.

“Ours?” He repeats slowly, some confusion still lingering on his face. “You mean -?”

Sigrid nods, a small laugh bubbling up within her. “Just you and me.”

Fíli tears his gaze away from her, looking around the townhouse as if for the first time. The building has changed so much since she first stepped foot in it – the broken staircase has been restored, the chandeliers have been replaced, and the dusty moth-eaten tapestries have been stripped from the walls. But it isn’t finished yet. The house has been restored but it hasn’t been _filled._ It isn’t a home yet, not until there are books lining the empty bookshelves, armchairs sat in front of the hearth, and their clothes hanging in the wardrobe.

A thick, heavy silence hangs between them as she watches him look around the house with wide eyes. Her nerves are back, fluttering anxiously in the pit of her stomach. The longer the silence stretches on, the more she worries she had done the wrong thing. But then, in one quick motion, Fíli turns and catches her face between his hands. He looks at her for a moment, eyes burning with an unreadable emotion, before, with almost too much force, he crashes their lips together.

She gasps against his lips, caught by surprise. One of his hands moves, sliding into her hair, tilting her head to one side to deepen the kiss. Her arms wind around his neck and he presses against her with a low sound escaping his throat. It’s so easy to lose herself in his touch. It makes her wonder how she possibly shied away for him for so long.

She doesn’t know she’s moving until her back meets the door behind her. When his lips move, leaving a scorching trail of kisses down her throat, she throws her head back instructively. She should have knocked her head against the door but Fíli’s hand is already there, curled around the back of her head, shielding her from the blow.

“Have I said -” He breathes in between kisses. She feels a hint of teeth against her collarbone and gasps. “How much I love you?”

“I have -” She laughs breathlessly into his hair. “I have some idea.”

“Hm.” He mumbles, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “How about I show you then?”

That’s the only warning she gets before he scoops her up in his arms. Sigrid lets out a startled noise of surprise and makes a half-hearted attempt at trying to get free that does nothing save make him clutch her closer to him. As he climbs the stairs, his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the quiet house, she can only laugh and hold on tight, even though she knows, deep down, that he would never drop her. It’s something her Dwarf has proven time and time again.

Later, when she’s finally caught her breath again and the stars have faded from her eyes, she turns her head and looks across at him lying next to her. Fíli is staring at the ceiling, still looking a little dazed. She takes in his flushed cheeks and mussed hair and the rise and fall of his chest and a slow smile spreads across her face.

Sigrid shifts onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. She lightly traces the scar on his shoulder before trailing her hand down his chest. She lays her palm flat over his heart, feeling the steady, strong _thump thump thump_ of his heartbeat. When her eyes flicker up back to his face, she meets his gaze. The soft, tender expression in his eyes makes her chest warm and she rolls closer, until her arm is wrapped around his torso and her chin is resting on his chest.

“So,” she says, still a little breathless. “Do you like it?”

Fíli tips his head back, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Like it? Aye, I like it very much, _âzyungel_.” He says as he brushes his fingers through her hair, which had come loose from its braid at some point, and she hums, pleased. She still doesn’t know how she managed to keep it a secret for so long. It feels, sometimes, like he’s able to read her like an open book. His hand stills for a moment, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “I should turn it down though. Y’know, as revenge for you rejecting all the gifts I so kindly offered you.”

“Oh?” She sits up a little, arching her brow. “And what was I supposed to do with a diamond the size of a chicken’s egg?”

Fíli mirrors her expression, raising his own brow. “Wear it?”

“I’d look a little out of place, don’t you think?” She quips and Fíli’s expression turns positively devilish.

He rolls her onto her back and hovers over her, planting his hands either side of her head. The gleam of mischief in his eyes promises nothing but trouble. Fighting a smile, she struggles to keep her face impassive as he lowers his head slowly, holding her gaze, and presses a kiss just below her jaw.

“Wear it tonight.” He murmurs against her jaw. “You won’t look out of place.”

She squirms, struggling to maintain her composure. “I don’t even know where it is. Wouldn’t… wouldn’t know where to look.”

“I know where it is.” Fíli grins as his lips travel across her jaw. He pauses right before he reaches her lips, drawing back a fraction to speak. “It’s in my room.”

Sigrid hums, as if in agreement, but she doesn’t really know what they’re talking about anymore. She lost track of the conversation the moment his lips met her skin and he knows it. Her hands lift of their own accord and curl against his neck, fingers tangling in his mussed hair. She isn’t sure which of them moves first, only that one moment they’re looking at each other, grinning, and the next, their lips are meeting desperately.

Her fingers curl into a fist around his hair while her other hand slips down the broad expanse of his back.

Time seems to lose all sense of meaning after that, nothing matters but the pleasure driving them higher and higher. There’s only him and her, in this place – this _home –_ that’s just for them.

Sigrid had been told, growing up, that a woman’s wedding marks the first day of the rest of her life. But it hadn’t been for her. Her wedding hadn’t even truly been the beginning of her marriage, that had come much later. She thinks, if one specific moment marks a change in her life, that it’s here and now. She can see a future here, a _home._ She knows she will be happy here. She’ll never be lost again.

“Sigrid,” Fíli murmurs her name like a prayer. “Sigrid, I love – I love -”

She nods, kissing him desperately. “I know.”

Fíli slumps against her when they both come down from their high, his face buried in the crook of her neck. They remain like that for a long time, tangled up in each other. She runs her fingers through his tangled hair, her eyelids heavy and threatening to close. She’s very nearly dozing off when Fíli suddenly lifts his head to look at her.

“ _Âzyungel_ ,” he breathes against her lips, his voice catching. “You are -”

He closes his eyes, sighing softly. She touches his cheek and he leans into her touch.

“I’ve never loved anyone like this. It – it feels like everything has led to this. To you.” He says and her gaze falls to the scar on his shoulder. Sigrid has never had much faith in a higher power, she’s never been one to believe in fate and wishes and miracles, but when it comes to him, she’s no longer so sure. She remembers the story he had told her, about how Dwarves are supposedly made by splitting two souls in half and how they live their lives searching for their other half.

“I love you.” She whispers, her voice catching as well, but the words don’t seem enough. It’s never been her strong suit; she’s never known how to put words to what she feels in the same way that he does. But she has to try. “So, so much. More than… more than I can ever say. More than you’ll ever know.”

Her eyes are stinging with tears but she’s happy. So happy.

Almost overwhelmed, she wraps her arms around him and pulls him closer to her. His weight against her is comforting, rather than crushing. She isn’t sure she could stand to have more than an inch between them. They stay that way, wrapped up in each other until eventually, they both fall asleep. The afternoon passes them by and Sigrid sleeps soundly, dreamlessly.

The sun is just beginning to set when Sigrid slowly starts to wake up. Her eyes flutter open slowly and she blinks against the light streaming into the room. She glances up, still a little groggy, unsure where she is. Her confusion melts away when her gaze falls upon Fíli. In her sleep, they’d shifted into their usual position – Fíli on his back with Sigrid curled up against him. She shifts against him and rests her chin on his chest, watching his eyelashes flutter in his sleep.

She’s tempted to go back to sleep but something in the back of her head niggles, trying to remind her of something she has forgotten.

Sigrid jolts upright when the thought finally comes to her.

“Bilbo!” She whispers, her eyes widening. In all the excitement of showing Fíli the new house and what followed, they had forgotten all about Bilbo. She looks over her shoulder and out the window, wincing at the sight of the setting sun. Bilbo would have arrived at the mountain in the middle of the afternoon. Meaning they had missed welcoming him and Bofur and Nori back to Erebor. Meaning she had missed the sight of Thorin’s face, something she’d been looking forward to seeing ever since they received Bilbo’s raven announcing his return.

“Fíli!” Sigrid murmurs, giving his shoulder a shake. “Fíli, wake up!”

“What -” Fíli mumbles, his face scrunching up before he slowly opens his eyes one at a time. He blinks at the sight of her leaning over him, brows drawing together in confusion. He reaches out, gently brushing her hair away from her face. “Sigrid? What is it, love?”

_“Bilbo.”_

Fíli blinks. It takes a moment for the word to settle in, then he jerks upright the same way she had.

“Mahal’s hairy balls, what time is it?” His wide eyes shift to the windows and he falls back against the bed with a groan. “Mum’s going to murder me.”

Sigrid nods despairingly. “Dara too.”

“Kee and Tauriel’s engagement ceremony isn’t until dusk. If we hurry, we can make it. We’ll – we’ll just say there was an emergency. I, uh, hurt myself and needed the best healer in Dale to fix me up.” He says, nodding to himself like it’s a sound plan.

Sigrid falls back onto the bed beside him with a sigh. They’re going to be late either way. Both of their clothes for the evening are in the mountain. Dara will be in her room when she arrives, furious, and make her suffer through a likely hour-long lecture about her expectations as a Princess of Erebor. Expectations that include standing with the King and the royal family during the welcoming of new arrivals to the mountain.

As if on cue, the front door downstairs creaks open and, a moment later, slams closed.

Fíli and Sigrid glance at each other before they both scramble out of bed, throwing their clothes back on as quickly as they can. Heavy footsteps stomp up the stairs and she’s only just managed to get her dress back on when they stop outside the door. She expects the door to burst open – Dara has never been one to knock – but instead, there’s a pause, followed by a light rap of knuckles against the wood.

“Sigrid.” Dara huffs from the other side of the door. “You’d both better hurry up and get decent because I’m coming in. I’m giving you thirty seconds.”

When the Dwarf starts counting aloud, Sigrid sighs. She doesn’t bother with her dress fastenings or her stockings, but she waits until Fíli has finished getting dressed before she crosses the room and throws open the door. Dara’s brows lift in surprise, not even half-way through counting, and then she rolls her eyes at the sight of her.

“Going to the party dressed like that, are you? It’s a good thing I came prepared.” Dara tuts as she pushes past her, stalking into the room. She fixes Fíli with a hard gaze before she dumps the black duffle bag in her hand on the bed. “Is there running water in the house? Good. Go wash up. I have both of your clothes. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Thanks, Dara.” She and Fíli both murmur, close to laughter, before she leads the way to the bathroom that’s in the next room.

Fíli takes his clothes from Dara before he leaves the room, mumbling something about not wanting to get changed in front of the other Dwarf to preserve his dignity. And Dara, either not understanding or appreciating the joke, scowls in response.

There isn’t time for a bath so they have to settle for washing up with cold water and a flannel. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and presses her lips together to keep from laughing. Her hair is a wild mess of curls and there’s a faint bruise on her collarbone that _certainly_ hadn’t been there that morning. Fíli catches her looking at it and grins with the promise of trouble in his eyes. She leaves the bathroom quickly after that, before he can distract her again.

A dress is laid out on the bed for her, one she has never seen before. It matches the colours of the Durin family crest, royal blue with gold detailing. She shrugs out of the clothes she’s wearing and Dara helps her into the new dress, fastening the corset extra tight, as if out of spite.

The dress is undeniably beautiful and a far cry – for the better - from what she usually wears, even if it means she can’t breathe because of it. She runs her fingers lightly down the jewelled bodice while Dara fastens her silk stockings with a pale blue ribbons. It reminds her of the dresses she used to see in the window of the fancy dressmaker’s in Laketown. She remembers how Tilda used to dream that one day they would get to wear dresses like that.

Dara is dragging a comb through Sigrid’s tangled hair when Fíli finally emerges from the bathroom. He’s wearing a deep blue tunic that matches her dress and cloak with a thick, dark fur collar. He pauses in the middle of tying his hair back at the sight of her, a crooked smile tugging at one corner of his lips.

 _“Âzyungel.”_ He says softly, tilting his head to one side. “You look beautiful.”

She ducks her head, flushing at the look in his eyes. “Thank you. You – you – uh – also.”

Fíli snorts and drops a quick kiss to the top of her head before he sits down on the edge of the bed beside her. They sit in silence, sneaking the occasional glance at each other, while Dara works on her hair. Dara doesn’t say much other, aside from a few tuts and sighs over the state of Sigrid’s hair.

“There.” Dara eventually says with a heavy sigh, climbing off of the bed. “Now you’re halfway presentable.”

Sigrid laughs quietly to herself. “Thank you, Dara. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Truly.”

That brings a smile to the Dwarf’s face at long last. Dara waves off the compliment, looking like she’s fighting a smile, and grabs her by the hand, hauling her off of the bed. Fíli follows close behind her as Dara tows her out of the room, rapidly chastising them both about how unforgivably late they’re going to be. There’s no real heat to her words though. Dara shoots her a smile when she drops Sigrid’s hand, giving her away. Sigrid gets the feeling that the moment the party is over, the Dwarf will take her aside and ask her how Fíli reacted to the house.

There’s a carriage waiting in the courtyard that saves them from a mad dash through the city. They pile in and it bounces along the cobblestone streets, reminding her so much of her wedding day that she has to laugh. It’s even the same carriage, she realises as she looks around the interior. Fíli seems to notice it at the same time she does and shoots her a grin from the seat opposite her.

The sun has well and truly set by the time they reach Erebor. The kingdom is alive with activity, covered in lavish decorations, with small celebrations going on in celebration of the Prince’s engagement. More than one Dwarf they pass are deep in their cups already.

They’re late but all the same, Sigrid pauses just before they pass the staircase leading up to the Royal Wing.

“Wait.” She finds herself saying, tearing her gaze off of the staircase to look at Dara and Fíli. “There’s something I need to get from our rooms.”

A brief furrow forms between Fíli’s brows before he puts two-and-two together. He glances from her to the staircase and then back, giving her a crooked smile.

“You go ahead, Dara. We’ll meet you there.” Fíli says and takes Sigrid’s hand. They’re already moving by the time Dara responds, calling after them in disbelief. All Sigrid can do is throw an apologetic glance over her shoulder and hurry after Fíli. He moves surprisingly quickly for someone of his stature.

They’re both out of breath when they reach their rooms. Her dress is too tight, making her wince with every breath. How a corset ever came into fashion, she’ll never understand. She waits outside their quarters, chewing on her lower lip anxiously as Fíli darts inside in search of the necklace he had once tried to give her.

She’s only just gotten her breath back when he emerges, waving the sparkling necklace above his head triumphantly.

“Found it!” He exclaims and holds it out to her. It’s still the most beautiful necklace she’s ever seen. The large, round diamond glimmers in the candlelight, hanging from a delicate silver chain. It’s strange - the first time she’d seen it, it had made her feel a little sick. It’s still intimidating, imagining how much something like it might cost. That amount of gold could probably have kept her family fed for months. But she’s able to look past that now. Knowing that Fíli crafted it with his own hands, for _her,_ makes all the difference in the world.

Sigrid shifts her hair out of the way when Fíli steps behind her, helping her put on the necklace. She touches the stone, her fingers lighting tracing the smooth face. She isn’t sure she will ever become entirely comfortable with such a lavish display of wealth. In her heart, she’s still just a girl from Laketown, a bargeman’s daughter, who never could have dreamed that this would one day be her life.

A lady. A _princess._ The girl she’d once been would have scoffed, said _never in a million years_ would such a thing be said about her.

Sigrid smiles and loops her arm through Fíli’s. He looks at the necklace with an odd look on his face, almost disbelieving. The look quickly passes, replaced with a tender expression that warms her from head to toe. No one has ever looked at her like that before. She still finds it hard to believe sometimes.  

Deep in thought, Sigrid is barely aware that they’re moving until she looks up and sees that they’ve arrived in the banquet hall. The hall is quiet, every Man, Dwarf and Elf in the room is watching the happy couple. No one notices her and Fíli slip quietly into the back of the crowd.

Kíli and Tauriel are kneeling on the same dais where she and Fíli had exchanged golden engagement beads almost a year ago.

Tauriel looks so beautiful in a deep green dress, with her long auburn hair loose around her shoulders. She’s composed, as opposed to Kíli, who is grinning madly at her with tears in his eyes. The way the two look at each other – it’s no wonder they managed to convince a bunch of stuffy Dwarves to let one of their own marry an Elf.

Thorin is stood before them, reading aloud words in Khuzdul she doesn’t understand. They’re the same words, presumably, that he had read to her and Fíli. Sigrid can’t say she remembers much of that night. She’d been practically sick with nerves, barely about to look her own betrothed in the eye. She remembers rushing off the moment the ceremony was done, wishing she was anywhere in the world except for there.

Sigrid hangs back when the ceremony is over, letting Fíli rush forward to congratulate his brother. She spies Bofur from where she’s stood, talking animatedly to his brother, but no Bilbo. She looks around the small hall for the Hobbit and finds no sign of him.

When she moves over to the drinks table and helps herself to a glass of wine, she spots Kíli and Tauriel dancing and waves when the Elf catches sight of her. Tauriel blows her a kiss over Kíli’s shoulder, looking happier than she had ever seen her. The two have been waiting for this day for so long, they deserve every happiness.

She’s still watching the two dancing, smiling to herself, when Fíli finds her.

“Look.” Fili whispers, nudging her.

Sigrid glances away from Kíli and Tauriel and follows his gaze, curious. At first she isn’t sure what he’s trying to show her, but then she sees it: tucked away in a quiet corner of the hall, Bilbo and Thorin are dancing. The look on Thorin’s face is everything she had hoped it would be.

All the sadness the Dwarf King has carried for so long seems to have faded away in the face of Bilbo’s bright, loving smile. Sigrid’s eyes prickle with the threat of tears, born out of happiness for the second time that day. She glances across at Fíli and finds him in a similar state, the look on his face hopelessly fond. She wants to go over there, to ask how Bilbo has been, to see if the two have finally told each other how they feel, but there will be time for that later. For now, she keeps back and lets the two enjoy their long-awaited moment together.

“Sigrid.” Fíli says, stealing back her attention. He holds out his hand to her. “Dance with me?”

She doesn’t say anything, just sets down her glass and slips her hand into his. Fíli leads her to the dancefloor and pulls her close. He slides his arms around her waist and hers move to his shoulders, wrapping loosely around his neck. The song is upbeat, calls for a more lively dance, but they merely sway together, almost oblivious to the music, in a world of their own.

Sigrid ducks her head, letting her eyes fall closed as she leans her forehead against his. She thinks, if she could tell her younger self anything, it would be that she may be a girl from Laketown but she’s more than just that. She’s also a princess of Dale and Erebor. A wife of a prince. A prince who she loves with her whole heart.

And she’s happy. She’s _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe we've finally reached the end. i'm so emotional right now. this has been quite a journey and i want to thank you all so, so much for all the love and support you've given me along the way. and you've all been so patient too! thank you for that, it really helped whenever i was stuck or considering giving up to read your feedback and encouragements. 
> 
> i've never actually finished a long fic like this and this story was my first adventure into the fili/sigrid ship. this definitely isn't it for me. i'm seriously considering writing a sequel to this, that'll be set a few years ahead, but i haven't started it yet. i think i'd want to have written a good chunk of it before posting so to avoid the long breaks between updates like with this fic.
> 
> if you ever want to talk to me about it (or anything else, really) you can find me over on tumblr at littlebardlings.tumblr.com
> 
> thank you all for reading and sticking with this fic, i love you guys <3
> 
> \- allyss


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